In the grocery store she giggles,
says baby look!,
like they’re giving out free kittens
and oranges aplenty. She teases me past
aisles of cereal boxes and canned gravy,
wrapping her arms around my
worrisome waist—
a moment so gluttonous
only love and a city girl
could permit it.

I wish most of all to remember these
stolen smiles, carefully selected
chocolate-chip desert and twirls
around shopping carts.
But I am busy scanning
lists and strangers’
narrowed eyes like we are
about to rob the place and,
when she kisses me
by the yellow rubber gloves
(only the cheek allowed),
I think that we are.

Walking through the parking lot,
keys between index and thumb,
my head turns for vigilantes.
They meet me in
the form of Drunk
Business Student
with something to say
and Man Who Follows Us
from aisle to aisle in Walmart
while his girlfriend asks
where are you going ? ? ?

When we pass through the
North Country Flea Market,
our hands do not touch. They are safe,
and I am always sorry, except
when her tongue meets mine
under fluorescent lights
in the Hanover St parking garage,
and I think arrest me please,
take me for everything you’ve got.

For we have stolen the
impressionable children
and upstanding voyeurs—they are in the back of
my 2011 Subaru next to the
kittens and oranges and righteous joy.
Take my keys even. For once,
I have forgotten them.