not when you stand there
hips propping hands
smile raised lamentably
as a twenty-dollar tent

neither on the lookout
with the blank lake behind you
flat as a portrait studio backdrop

not at the instant a baseballglove beak
shortstops your badly tossed sandwich crust

nor in your mother's wedding dress
plundered from a cardboard box
under an air mattress
in the basement closet.

rather, perhaps

as you triple-knot the garbage bag,
hair drowsily ponytailed

struggle with an umbrella
as precocious october snow
speckles your rainjacket

or standing on a wooden chair,
left hand bracing marbled wallpaper
right rattling a lightbulb at your ear

possibly as you squeeze a teabag
between spoon and thumb

or at the split-second precisely
your eyes widen at a bumblebee

maybe as you straddle a picnic-table seat
and puncture a tangerine
with two front teeth

or close your eyes at your mother's voice,
fingers tangled in telephone cord

throwing clothes unfolded
into a borrowed suitcase

or later while you're still
curled there, that familiar damp spot
faint on the pillow
by your waterfountain mouth