you are only as sick as your
secrets the old man says
and I nod emphatically
like I found them and

I have just
applied a fire engine red
gloss to my lips and
sat down in the middle of five
men: black tights, black
skirt and black pleather jacket.
my hair is slicked
and how I should have started
was confessing that Whole Foods
should hire better security but what
I choose to say is nothing
and sip the five
fingered
alcohol infused Kombucha
like I earned this
deviancy and I start by
saying “I had no idea
this was a men’s meeting
but thank you so much for
allowing me to be here”
and brave a smile
but what I should have said
was every inch of clothing
from my velvet black push up
bra that has drawn some neighbors
nearer to my high heeled
mock suede boots
stretched out in the center
like I just need this space so
much is absolutely
unpaid for;
one way or another,
nothing I hold
has been paid for
yet. 

“confession #1”