We Dress Up for Museums

A poem by Charles Farmer

You were something in make-up, with borrowed credit cards,
mispronouncing starters on the brunch menu, punching me on my right shoulder after we saw Rothko’s “73,”

your way of making the moment more than a field trip.
You even tried to pay for parking with handfuls of change.

But you are best in minimum wage sundresses,
drinking beer in parking lots, when my ex-wife knew you were a threat

“Umbrellas, We at the Wash and Fold”
Why do I keep listening to Beethoven’s ninth?
The neighbors ask me to turn it down,
and they have knocked on the door with police as ridiculous escorts.
Maybe it is because of your freckles,
your eyebrows The Anne Bancroft highlights, The homemade dresses ,
You searching for lipstick after each drink Your accent that skins each word like a razor, Y
ou describing yourself as mouthy
But it is probably the thought of you teaching ballet or sewing, A
ll dash and bloom, Balance and beautiful