The Date

She took the pink eraser out of her purse and went

to work on his face—not the features so much as the dark

crevasse in his brow and the knowing set of his stony jaw.

Her wrist hinged smooth as oil under the fluid gestures

moving like the head of a charmed snake over his cheekbones

softening him so deftly that on a sudden impulse she added

the barest smudge of a dimple, framing his mouth

into something that suggested a coming smile: What is this?

he murmured once she’d slipped the pink stub

flushing the asphalt streets with such rain

that if you stood in the rivering gutters, your ankles

would be kissed with cool water while your soles

pressed pavement warmer than blood—that is when

the man walks into the rain with neither umbrella nor overcoat

and you cannot tell his crying from the downpour. Inside

she looks into her handheld mirror, drawing her cheeks

taut as she once again wields the slender eraser

and with two swift strokes removes her mouth.