At the party, Saturday night,
she becomes a contact number
in my cell phone.
A little south of interested,
I quietly duck out and go home.
In the morning, she turns
into the lost subway token
that convinces me to go to the game.
In the third inning, she is the mustard
that spills from my hot dog
and stains the front of my shirt.
Later, she mutates as the foul ball
that I catch to the crowd’s delight.
On the packed subway ride home,
she is the overhead handle that supports me.
When I reach my apartment,
she changes into the metal key
that safely lets me inside.
As I remove my stained shirt,
she passes into the gravity
that allows my phone to fall
out of my pocket and on the floor.
When I pick it up,
I notice I have one missed message.