Spit-Shine

There was a smudge on the glass

right where the sun hits the street.

I didn't reach for the spray or a cloth,

I just licked my thumb and leaned in.

It’s her move. The way she’d scrub my face

before the bus came.

I can smell the lemon dish soap on my knuckle,

sharp and fake,

stuck in the dry cracks of my skin.

I’m looking through the clear spot I made

and seeing her hand where mine should be.