Straight-Laced

Your textile mill
& your straight-laced columns of mathematics
kept me in line—
but when I sent kiss-o-grams
to the cute boy in cubicle three,
you crippled me with laughter,
a bruised knee,
& sideways shoves into the lockers.

When I held his hand for the first time,
—fly-me-to-Jupiter, over-the-moon happy—
you said I was gross
& plenty of other terrible things, too.

I still work at the mill,
& keep my records straight,
tight as a wound ball of yarn,
tidy as my pencils, neatly ordered in lines—
but he’s the only one I tango with at night.

M.B.B.
2/17/15
(edited 6/4/20)

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