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.