The Lesbian’s Story
So here I am,
steeped in the sharp scent of deodorant,
my skin still warm
with the last light of afternoon,
walking towards Dorothy.
Dorothy sees me,
then pretends she hasn’t,
and walks away
with another young man.
Was that enough
to make a poem?
For the life of me,
I can no longer remember
why I came to Dorothy.
Was it
to tell her
a lesbian’s story?
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