Coaxing the Girl

I have done this thing in bathroom stalls with
       2-ply toilet paper and the calm of faucets left running.

At 2 a.m. I have discovered the perfect chaser

for 1300 milligrams of store brand, micro coated
         aspirin. As the contents of the bottle deplete, I am still
  waiting for the guarantee of
         fast, safe pain relief.

I have wished it with me in the 15-minute gap
that leaving the house on time has created. Today,
     I want to be late for class.

My pocket is not a suitable home, however. It butts into
me in all the wrong places, on all the wrong skin, and
often with the wrong end.

Between my knees and my navel (I’m getting braver)
     there are great anchors. But these
are not the kind
   to hold a body down.

They are sweet talking me out of my covers and
into classrooms,
     movie theatres, other peoples’
    houses,
         to get to work on time.

They do long to put life elsewhere.
They are traveling much to the dismay of wife-beaters
           that ride up and my declining
                                                  waistline.
I am always repositioning myself in my clothes.

But I will tug and fidget, and blame it on an
     itch, on nerves. I will allow for the
  body-trotting of this if it means I am
   a participant in the day, if my naps are broken,
      and I am less so.