HOT 

PINK 

BUDDHA

She let me in to clean up

her grungy one room apartment

with its unobstructed view of Saturn.

I knew how to stifle that part

of my brain that judges

but, really, I’m only human.

This chick was reference grade skank

and it was immediately clear 

her taste was

all in her mouth.

At the center of the room 

was what looked like a torture device

but was in fact a treadmill machine

straddling 4 sound-proofing pillows

“My neighbor says I make too much noise”

graced by a polka dot bra 

dangling off it's handlebar.

Some would call that

a tone setter for the room, that is

until you saw the hot pink Buddha

seated indian-style 

atop the mini-fridge.

“I take it you know what to do,”

she said in her paisley crop top

and turquoise spandex capris. 

“No problem,” I said, seeing as she

was living her life out loud

right in front of me

with such perfect abandon.

For all I knew she was putting

her best foot forward. Even so,

I’d found a way not to care

who says or does what.

It always helps.

“Should I start in the bathroom?”

I asked, bracing for bacteria.

“Sure. Just pretend I’m not here.”

I couldn’t think of anything less possible.

But I’d learned how to stay in my zone.

Whether I was a poet who secretly cleans toilets

or a toilet cleaner who secretly writes poems

it hardly mattered, though

I’d discovered a long time ago:

intelligence makes people wary.

So I try not to be eloquent.

The whole apartment smelled 

like that artificial air-freshener

they use in truck stop rest areas

hopelessly camouflaging

the unromantic nature of real life.

I made my way to the bathroom

with my cleaning supplies.

“You know, I’m a teacher,” 

she said out of the blue. 

“Oh, really,” I said, trying

not to appear gobsmacked.

“Yeah, we start back to school next week.”

“Wow, that must be challenging,”

considering all the Covid restrictions

mercilessly in place.

“Kids today are a lot to live up to.

I need my stamina. 

They’ll take you down if you’re not

100 percent on your toes.

I’m not gonna lie, 

my feet hurt already,”.

Faced with the hymen colored walls 

inside the pit-stop of the bathroom

I could feel the oxygen level

dip and close in

as I came face to face

with the transformative job at hand:

the mirror spattered with spray,

the sink spotted with flesh-tone gook,

the back of the toilet cluttered

with bottles and jars of all sizes

purchased for their promise of beautification.

The collective smell prickled my nose,

fabricating a scent not found in nature,

feminizing me by sheer osmosis.

Or was it some insidious infiltration?

And then it happened.

She and I were suddenly one;

my consciousness reincarnated.

I want to be pretty 

no matter what I am doing,

Walking, shopping, working out,

teaching the grateful and ungrateful

alike. But just when others think

all I am is pretty, I'll hit them with

the hard won reformation

of my inner character. 

I am nobodies pretty fool.

I have grit and gumption

and emotional intelligence

that can top any muscle headed

man and if that weren’t enough

I can enlarge or shrink myself 

to any size because 

my heart, having been so

repeatedly broken, no longer

needs to be loved in order

to love

anyone or anything 

in any way.

09/02/21