Is it my tendrils of smoke, the scent of my shampoo

or my dog’s panting that rises up to the third floor apartment

of the brick building across the street

 

where you poke your head out of that window

to ask me if id like something to eat,

something specific, always;

pizza, a meatball sub,

or something else entirely

as when you inquire if im dirty

and would like the bath with bubbles

you’re already drawing,

would my dog like to come with me?

 

and I know it’s not just me.

that alleyway’s past was marked

by heavy foot traffic

before your inquiries,

and it’s not just women;

a fact that comforts me.

 

You are well taken care of

attired in bright sweaters,

warm and clean.  And gracious

enough to always offer something

i catch you alone sometimes,

bent forward and whispering

 

It’s clear that you…