On my way to the video store sheets of ice
cover puddles like wrinkles patterning
the corner of an eye. I’m on my way
to return Paul Newman. He’s kissing
parking meters like they were girls
he’d been circling all night, then deftly
beheading them.

More ice on the bus shelter glass.
One panel reads, “your gay” scratched
through the thin crystals. Mine?

Still it’s not hard to see the two of us instead:
only days ago. My shoulder encountering
yours on the sofa during Cool Hand Luke.
Or early the next afternoon before I left,
as you pressed me up against the door
and said it’d be a shame for me to lose
my breasts. I stepped back
outside into the first inch of snow
that had gathered since we came in.

Already the snow was melting.
A clump fell from the branches
of the tall bush by the front door.
They shook up then down
a trampoline evening itself out
after its jumper has jumped off.

It was a short walk home.
It would have taken more
blocks to figure out
that I’d escaped without losing
my head. My glasses fogged
when I got in from outside.