Ted Hughes was resting on his side,
bottom shelf and dusty.
Birthday Letters, now $5.50,
slightly more than the caramel Frappuccino
I purchased just to use the Starbucks’ bathroom.
The barista with the mermaid tattoo
on his forearm handed me the key
attached to a giant spoon and said,
There’s room in there for two, if you’re lonely.
Ted Hughes was saying, You want this,
but what I wanted was the half-Cuban firefighter
whose license plate read Fuego.
Earlier, I visited the station
hoping for a glance, but he was asleep
in his bunk room, deep in the back
and didn’t hear me when I dropped my purse.
I imagined him, undusty,
on his side dreaming of women
he’s not married to.
Ted Hughes was begging, sale price,
You’ve avoided me so far, but I’ve felt you finger
my pages. I tried to tell him
about my relationship with his first wife,
how I met her in high school,
even named my cat Sylvia.
If I brought him home,
they’d have to share a shelf
and if I pulled out Sexton, they’d touch.
Still, I could hear him whispering as I left,
Take me. You know you want to.