Until Tomorrow

Pictures of her torn from women's magazines
grace my bedroom door like a candlelit shrine
inside the dungeon of a serial killer, and she
smiles at me, or pouts, or just looks sexy as
I wait for the mail truck to arrive so I can
stand visible in front of the open door naked,
"accidentally," with a towel like I was about
to wrap it around myself after a shower or swim,
but when I see what comes out of the truck, it’s
a man, so I get dressed and close the front door.

by Michael Frissore