No scented lotions, only classic escapes he associates
with his grandmother, the one gauzy lit memory
of finding her blush
as a boy
when mother was truth, love, & sunlight
he doesn't remember how much he applied
that winter afternoon
but now, the glare of the one lamp turned up
against cheap wood paneling
so that the back of his room
slants with light,
the scent of that morning lung deep, tickling the heart,
he squints, and it's almost New York.
The city. He knows in the city he could be among, a part of,
dressed to the nines, or hiding in the back crowd in a bright dress
why this is important he isn't sure
only that it is a repeating loop.
His make-up kit keeps,
a hook behind the dresser,
a gym bag for his clothes.
A wig, wig, wig, motioning through phases of outfits,
so jacked and nervous is his trade,
he cannot relax before slipping into and out of
his sister's sweater dress, a stolen
skirt, an ex-girlfriend's bra.
Old man kept some of his mother's clothes.
They are in a box in the hall closet.
Three pairs of boots are stacked on top.
His father's work coat, from days when he worked the line,
lays like a promise across its face.
Hours slam by, and he tries
three personaes, three scenarios,
cooks up a lie about why he's doing
so much laundry, pressing so hard with the iron
as if as if as if
a wish wished so hard comes true comes true
