She slides into her room,
Private, alone,
Peels off her average day
One layer at a time.

Before the window
She strips off nylons,
Jewelry, the cross at her throat.
Flips hairpins onto the bureau
Then leans naked over the window sill
Into the bat-black.

She balls her stockings
And hurls them,
Blinking,
Into the street below.

He races along
Head down,
Late for the bus,
Until the sheer leg-skin
Caresses his down turned face,
Curling as a lover might
Across his shoulder.

He draws it close,
Breathing in the remnants
Of her average day.
He sees legs crossed under a desk
Imagines feet clacking along concrete
His mind’s eye following
The legs as they walk upstairs.

He balls the hosiery
And stuffs them
Unthinking
Into the pocket of his coat.