Like a 1940s actress,
a plucky sweet heroine,
I go back to my dressing room
and don’t see the door is ajar.
I have stripped down
to this lovely peach silk slip,
and am fiddling with my garters,
more functional than sexy,
lost in my own thoughts
when I see you at the door
with roses
and a message I didn’t realize
I was waiting for
and all I can say is “Really?”
in an innocent incredulity
followed by this fear
and gratitude
but I find the courage
to stay this exposed
and take your flowers from you,
putting them in a vase
so they will bloom a little longer
making room on the table
for whatever else is offered
from strangers I have feared
and don’t need to.