Errand

At 2 p.m., the creative class is out
buying their groceries
or else they are counting buttons
making side-eyes at the others.
I saw one, a widow with a hen
in her basement, butoh-ka tattooed
on one forearm, at the thrift
laying flowered blouses
across the other.
I lay both of mine open,
the pusillanimity of uninked skin.
I never aspired to any of this
but when I untie my hair
for my mad scene, it will not be
like members of the orchestra
looking on, eyes gleaming, from the dark pit.
It will be like the neighbor's taco truck
abandoned at the curb and me
holding the phone to your ear.