My shining star little sister
takes a field trip
to my New York commune
and we frolic through the city.
I’m the seasoned guide
showing off my Manhattan
she’s the wide-eyed tourist.
We get lost
on the subway
three times.
A handful of baseball players
hit on us, we flirt back
share one of their beers.
One asks Cara if she’s a model.
She says no,
but points to me and says I am.
He gives a wry up-and-down
says, “What? A hand model?”
The. Flirting. Halts.
His friend punches his arm,
“Come on, man,
she’s pretty.”
But Cara and I detest them
for insulting me,
for comparing us, and especially,
for implying jealousy
between sisters.