Appointments

Seven-fifteen, she cracks three eggs,
two whole wheat toasts,
fans apple slices just the way her daughter prefers.

Coffee for him (two sugars), juice boxes,
the permission slip for the field trip she almost forgot.

“Mom, where’s my purple folder?”
“Dad, can you drive me?” “Has anyone seen my-“

She moves through morning chaos with practiced ease,
kisses on foreheads, lunches into backpacks,
her husband’s tie straightened at the door.

Eight-thirty silence.

The dishwasher hums. She climbs the stairs.

The second Thursday of each month,
she becomes someone else.

Not lies, exactly—rather, selective truths
arranged like good jewelry.

The Hermès scarf (sample sale, five years ago),
the vintage Chanel suit (called in sick
to get it from the estate sale in Brookshire Heights).

She knows which hotels let you use the lobby
like a living room, orders mineral water
at the Whitmore bar with such authority
they comp her the nuts.

The bartender thinks she’s waiting for the ambassador.

At Grayson’s, she tries on shoes she’ll never buy,
discussing her “podiatrist’s concerns about arch support”
with such grave specificity the saleswoman
brings the buyer out for consultation.

Lunch at the Petrov Room—table for one,
New Yorker spread before her
like she’s fact-checking.

She smiles at her reflection
only when the waiter looks away.

She’s learned the waiter’s grandmother’s name,
mentions her hip replacement.

By four-thirty she’s timing her exit,
knowing the express gets crowded at five.

On the train home, she carefully folds the scarf,
checks the suit for spots.

At dinner, her husband asks about her day.
“Errands,” she says, passing the potatoes.
“Stopped by that new grocery on Fifth.”

Their daughter complains about algebra.
Their son needs new cleats.

She listens, nods, already planning
next month’s itinerary:
the gallery opening at the Carsten,
tea at the Meridian.

Her city waits, patient as a lover.