The question is, of course, how could one not
Think of Romeo and Juliet (as cliched as that
May sound) — with you, high atop an orange ladder,

And all the potted ferns in bloom, or whatever they were,
Though what could it matter, seeing that they were
All fake. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Your assistance
Was beautiful, and, yes, I found the caulk

Needed to patch the ruined wall, the wall I ruined
Trying to hang my Audrey Hepburn still.
Who calls photos “stills” anymore? People must

Think that antiquated, like saying eros when
You mean desire. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,
Though I suppose it’s good to have a place
To pat and smooth with a spade, a place to leave,

A place to return to. And no, I wasn’t certain
Of your return policy, but who’s really sure
About anything? What could go wrong? And besides,

I try not to return purchases, even if I’m unhappy
With them. I’m sorry I didn’t get your name
But believe it was as beautiful as the swatch of
Robin’s egg or swatch of apricot I pocketed,

Because it’s good to leave with something, isn’t it?
Time-card punched and apron slipped, like
Snake-husk, over a hook. I should talk you down

From that ladder. Say here, take my hand. I know
All too well how the store must feel, emptied.
After everyone has left, and its letters still burn.
Take my hand. What could possibly go wrong?