Baby Holders

Standard

 

They stroke her blonde hair

until peacefully asleep. My fingers

sticky with laundry soap, spill

stupid small plastic cup.

Wash. Bleach fills the air.

They fold fuzzy pink blankets and tiny

clothes. At a glance I remember my fingers,

 

Long and lean with acrylic nails- pink

white tips curled around a can

of Miller Lite. They swayed to the sweet

sound of the juke box, the laughter

of friends. A cigarette clenched between.

My fingers hailed cabs and locked

with the fingers of a stranger.

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