The Point Of Reclamation Poem by Ross Lakes

Her skin was darker than his,
Tanned by a different sun; younger,
Softer. She drew
More meaning from his than
He from hers.
“You like my new sticklip color? ”
She couldn’t speak real English,
Whatever that is.
“Lipstick? ” What lipstick?
He hadn’t even noticed
She had a head.

A continent away—bridge repair!
“How was the sex? ” “Fine.”
She said. The same thing she’d said
About dinner, and the movie,
And the end of her last,
Bad cold.