Would I be a better woman?

People wake from their trances when

my father passes by

in uniform as if on parade

while I skip behind trying not to step 

on his very shiny shoes 

that blast up the street 

like torpedoes.

Then comes that moment--
I can touch its contours, 

I can call it forth any time--

when I reach for the soldier's hand--

when I feel mine fit snug as a shrimp 
inside its shell--

that’s how I want it to be. 

I want him to claim me as I claim him.

I wonder now, would I be a better woman 

had he not yanked his hand free, 

had he not said, I don't have time to be silly,

had he not meant, not now, not ever?