Her heels tap slow down the hall past where I sit
Like the diktat of an autarch, or a deathwatch knell
And I look up from where I am face-deep in trivialities
Cigarette smoldering between my fingers, Do I know
what time it is getting to? I do not. And she passes by.
I get up and follow her not because she asked me to
—she didn’t—but because that’s the other half of this
Game we play, coy by turns, one to a side, and now
She stretches out full length on the bed and pretends
That there is something that she wants to talk about
Which there is, but her part of the conversation was
Walking slowly toward me and walking more slowly away
My answering argument was in following where she led
And once I’d reached her, leading her on to where she wants to go
Her eyes wide with counterfeit surprise and honest joy.