Tarting Up

It’s time

to go out.

I’m not tired of writing

but

of that instant

when the book must step out again

like a woman

who rises at evening

and vacantly studies the door,

opens it, flinching

at the onrush of the street.

Before meeting the outside

you begin to tart up, choose

an eye-catching photo

for the jacket

reassessing it like a dress

you’ve worn many times

and finger the quotes

and snippets of praise you know

too well. They’re jewels

whose beads

have minute crevasses, the thread

is loose, but you

embrace it calculatingly,

with a practised poise.

The best ones you’ve reserved

for tonight, when traffic

on the road’s uncaring

and promising. You’ll flash a smile

at him, and not look at his face.