Your eyelid twitches on this night
Out with him whom I just met.
He pretended not to see me or hear you.
You’re an opera singer cranking pop tunes
To keep him comfy. A shock of your hair
Would escape. (But no, I mustn’t kid myself.)
Somehow the bushel is home. I am inside
This vortex of a choir only I hear.
Your coat of many colors is on a hook.
