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.