Enough.

I am not wealthy enough to live the life
of glowing torches deep in the land
of Manhattan. I am not rich enough to swirl
in delicate shoes with the soles of lamb
and the feeling of bliss. I pretend to be

the woman who walks with power.
I am not wonderous enough to write
the way the light bounces from skin
to skin. Nor am I lithe enough
to be flipped onto a bed and made love to
like I was the only woman on earth.
I am not.

But I am quiet enough to brew coffee
that awakens and arouses while he lays
like an over-heated mummy. My room
has a view of brick and not of towers
but the morning still seeps through
and our heads still pound with the heaviness
of a rising day. I may not tie knots

or steer the sails with firm hands
but my hands are still soft and understanding.
I cannot study all day, even though
I would be fashionable and academic,
with glasses pushed to the tip of my nose.
My leather satchel is not worn enough
or new enough either. But I am something

enough to curl the bedsheets and toes
and to see that there are metaphors beyond
turning legs and open thighs. To see
that I can possess the dawn without
ruling the night. Or the town.