There will always be dirt under your fingernails

and gas in the car, blood in your brain,

rain in Paris.

Windows in hell, and makeup in drugstores,

and wretched hands of men opening

door after door after door,

and you who just want some afternoon peaches

without turning into proof of his kindness, say,

No, go ahead, please, you first, I’m really

in no rush, it’s no competition

for chivalry—

But since he is holding this heavy object

with his two arms (or maybe propping it

open with a bent knee, hands in pockets),

it is so simple to take two steps forward,

so you do. Heel ball toe, flatten the concrete

like a steamroller, pressure hissing out

with a breath because you gave in. But

remember: there will always be someone

who gets first dibs on peaches, dirt

under your nails in justification

of the traces the world leaves on you.

There will always be sun

in your eyes and a foot, somewhere,

striking glass.