Flown-over and over

by Dan Alter

wasn’t I the one who put on collars, dry cleaned,
and walked leafy in the commuter crowd trembling
like bible pages, and didn’t you have to dust elusive

fingerprints on your glass top table
the one in your town with the final phone numbers
hidden in his armpits, a spendthrift

of emotions and weren’t you the section
of the phone book where the longest call
begins, somewhere in the fine print, newspapery,

and wasn’t I, handsome, handing out flyers
for last year’s clearance, that had the tiniest
wings, and hid in your hands

but only in your town and wasn’t I
handsome, falling off my dimestore
horse before the nickel ran out

and got back up to you? You, last seen
dealing spoonfuls of hypoallergenic
pixiedust from your open trunk

soon to be pulled over and sentenced to too
much solitary, but you were never
entirely alone if I was in your town

and wasn’t I tied up with mauve ribbons,
another hydrangea for you to water or
a coleus with the veined leaves exploding

inward into purple and wasn’t I just
the leaf you were looking for?