Jump-Rope
Sunlight and coffee cause headaches
so Jay shuts his eyes, sips slowly
and waits for the reader.
A blonde, he hopes. The last, a redhead,
opened the blinds; birds came to watch.
Her hand, touching his knee, the trail
of her index, from thigh to page, through lips
back to the page. As if she didn’t know
the blindfold had holes.
Most of all in the afternoons.
A girl jumps rope, right by the window
where Jay sits. The voice keeps reading
about changed lives, the books changing,
people coming, and some falling in love.
A brunette, she speaks indecorously of apples,
of great secrets she means to show.
Jay sticks a fist in his lap;
it shakes, angry, like an old man’s.