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TO WILLIAM FAULKNER
because I cannot be a YOUNG HOUSEWIFE

It is 10 a.m.
I move about in this shameless body
behind wooden walls
that I have erected myself.
I see you pass with a solitary glance
in some new car.

Then again, as always, I come to the curb
to call the fish-lady, funny-lady, and stand
noticed, unfastened, running my fingers
through sapphism,
and you do not compare me
to a fallen leaf.

I watch your rushing wheels
as dried leaves crumble under
my feet.
You nod as you pass, I smiling.

Loni McCoy