Muted sweaters laugh
at elaborate wisecracks
as they’re pulled from women
draped with hair like neglected
cowboy boots and the fear of horses,
crowing consonants full of nobodies.
Sleight of hand leaves Long Island
silent as bent bobby pins. She loves bad jokes
but it’s all he can laugh at anymore
just waiting to forgive
the bees of their busied sadness
with our endless limbs,
paper umbrellas collapse
in Key West sunsets and the sounds
that make us mean.