The curve.

She was born a so-so girl
Called out twice, once, maybe never

At work she bemoans the workaday world
The stings every day world
The scrubs that don’t fit so well anymore.

She dabs at wounds, arranges meals for soft mouths.
The man holds up his missing fingers.

She places the fork in his other hand.
Flips the channels, thumbing at miniature keys
Wipes tomato sauce, streak of red
And quivers
Something like envy.