The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Is Is Enough by Lauren Camp

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IF I TELL YOU HOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHY

Someone left a child’s red boot in the path.
Done with motion and arrivals, it makes me want
to make a list of trusts.
When I lived in Boston, I dated a bus driver.
We went to a club
where I handed over a fake ID
and the bouncer saw me, young
and soft, a plucked berry. He let me in, knowing
that night I might cloudburst
or underworld. The city was bearable with dirty
habits of snowbanks, tired streets, people at each corner
doubled beside beeches
holding up signs lettered Hope. I give
my coats to such suffering. Bus driver bought me a drink
orange with ice. He whispered.
I didn’t know what to do
with a man with a mustache. It’s ridiculous, the construction
of a memory. The club was dark
and smoky and full of decisions. I can’t say
I felt lucky. We left
to walk that old crisp night. Boston was ruined
with slippery weather. He was gentle,
didn’t touch me. Dwindling
flakes latched to the ground and I never saw him
again. One hour bent
to another. I had no armor.
I didn’t need a map to know where we were going.
And then days went on.
And here I am with the boot, with the desert,
the sun, me beside me in the perfect center
of reason which looks maybe
like nothing, but I call it trust.

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