Georgia O’Keeffe’s Hands

you’re every “baby” in all the songs that I know

leaving a trail of bobby-pins wherever you go

another lagniappe in the attire of worried-through weekdays

just the way we’d tip and totter out of clothes

as the weather dissected our perfunctory moods

locked up like in an antelope trap’s jaws

set to blare with a few coinciding alarms

making up new lyrics to standards

out of all context to bray like little kids on candy

step it up

or to it

all shook loose from disagreeable kicks

with too many failed goodbyes on hold

like the world was

in a then we used to always have

baby baby baby

in the crook of your neck’s crane

in the never-read creases on your palms

crimpled and crinkled along the folds and getting older still

the lights going down

getting later earlier and earlier

baby

clomping away in rain boots or heels