At Nakashita’s Restroom

a young girl in a white vest bombed 

my shoulder and politely said “sorry madam.” 

For a second I wanted to slap her back. 

Instead I smiled and admired the profile 

of her perfect bare breasts like two nebulae 

yelling “look at us, everything begins and ends

with us, we are the mirror of buoyancy.” 

I was impressed, and on the way home I bought

Nutella croissants and a profound v-neck dress 

that hangs on my wardrobe next to my vanity.

The young girl with smooth skin is the target

customer of the company I work for, the hope 

of increasing sales, the future of happiness. 

I shouldn’t get annoyed when people label

me señora or madam, it’s all part of the strategy.

Everyone is trapped in evolving strategies.

My teenage son once slapped a bully, got beaten, 

and was more upset he and his black eye 

were forced to sit in the doctor’s waiting room 

next to his mom. When he was three he gave

flowers to strangers on park benches and told 

everyone he wanted to be young when he grew up.