THE SALES PITCHER

 

THE SALES PITCHER

You loved me like a salesman
with a suitcase full of glass eyes,
each one promising the moon
if I’d just sign on the dotted line
of your tongue. I rolled my eyes so hard
the sockets ached, darling—
that practiced, theatrical flip
I give the mirror every morning
when the coffee’s cold
and the mirror says again?
But I bought the whole pitch anyway:
your hands like warm contracts,
your voice sliding under my ribs
like a key that fit too perfectly
to be real. You called it love.
I called it the con.
Same difference when the lights go down. Now the bed is a stage set
with the props left behind—
one sock, a half-empty bottle,
the faint smell of your aftershave
that still tastes like cheap champagne
and better lies.
I lie here practicing my exit line,
the one that should have come first:
Get out.
But the curtains are drawn,
and I’m still whispering
come back
to the dent you left in the pillow,
eyeballs aching from all that rolling,
heart doing its stupid, stubborn cartwheel
right into the same old trap. Anne would have laughed—
or cried—
or lit another cigarette
and said,
Well, honey, at least the bruise is honest.
Mine is.
It’s purple as a plum,
and it spells your name
in perfect, disappointed script.