by Marina Rubin

        maybe this could work, I will work,
            every day I will file down those Brighton streets
past the trees and towards the station from where
    rattling and stammering in the urine-stained tunnels,
        I will enter Manhattan, the world of finance and vice,
            and after a full day of phones ringing and men raising                                bowler hats to me, I will come home, somewhat corrupted,
            where he, clean and warm, like a calm househusband
        or a second pet, will lay me on the bed and lick my
    velvety layers with his velvety tongue until I am
clean and then he will dip his hand inside my sea
          and I will become a ring on his finger