After the Auction, I Bid You Good-Bye

You elbow me with your corduroy jacket when a box chock-full of antique marbles comes up. I can’t hear your whispers above the auctioneer’s racket. The clipped speech of the auctioneer cracked me up when you impersonated him in bed. Like a wild, thick mop I soak up every copper smell from your corduroy jacket. In two days, I will drive you to the airport, packed with other couples pressed tightly at the top of the escalator. Lines sear my cheek from your corduroy jacket when we hug—then a quick kiss good-bye tacked on at the end. I’ll finger the rim on the paper coffee cup you leave in my car. When I hear your name I can’t forget how your long torso pressed against my bare back, bluish in this early light. Your fingers shot into me, popped my spine into a wicked arch. There is no lack of how it haunts me still—what I bid—lost, sacked and wrapped for other girls. I should have looked up to see who else was bidding, but I studied the folds in your jacket. My limit is spent, loud and certain as the auctioneer’s racket.