At Christine’s Apartment
Once, I left lime slices
on the cool curve of a Parisian marble sink—
rubbed them on my skin
for a bit of brightness, a borrowed freshness.
I didn’t know.
Not until the white stains bloomed,
quiet and irreversible,
like frost that never melts.
Now, every marble pillar I pass
pulls at that memory—
etched deep,
quietly unforgiving.
Christine, startled,
still gracious—
took my clumsy, too-many apologies
with a smile too kind
to name the cost.
All I could offer was:
If I ever become a famous poet,
and the stain won’t come out,
just chisel that part off and sell it.
It’ll be worth something eventually.
A limited-edition marble autograph.
