at the dry-cleaners

Sometimes I want to tell you
how excited I am
that the rosin for my cello bow
smells like rosin

or that it got all over my black concert pants
just to tell you.

I wait and wait for
a hardcore
metaphor
implore
galore
please come?

But no,
I am stuck wondering at the
finger-sized-round-blue-plastic-tough-pop
dome I press to dispense detergent
and the bulbous shape, big drip, sliding fluid
so greasy it is wet.

Wait and wait,
for a poem to come. But maybe
the outside of the onion can crackle
like turning an old page of a poetry book,
before my love does or my hate, before I tell you all about Ge and Ares
in the armfuls of clean soaking laundry
maybe waiting can be.


-Citron