fits the lock of the old-fashioned door
that rattles when closed.
The door separates our love making
from the hallway of the bed and breakfast.
You spotted the B&B from my car
amid mouthfuls of blueberries.
We bought the berries
at a roadside stand in Nova Scotia.
The road parallels the shore of the dark blue Atlantic
and eats my cash faster than planned.
My cash flow prompts you
to offer your credit card,
but your card has exceeded its limit.
You say that’s what happens with poor girls,
poor girls who need to pay for college,
so they enlist in the army.
The army will dye your life olive drab
and send you away to Germany.
Germany will change you, and
even though I visit, things will never be the same.