Intermission at the Opera. Saturday night.
All I know about her is the pageboy cut
of raven red hair. She stands abruptly
then uses the full arc of her body turn
to imprint the left side of my face.
One contact lens now lodged up under its eyelid,  
a bicuspid stuck to the inside of my mouth,
my cheek like a pup tent smacked by lightning.
I had never been slapped by a woman before,
though there was something about it I missed.
Bacall giving it to Bogie. Crawford to Gable. 
Deserved. Delivered. On to the next scene.
Black and white. Mine seemed technicolor.
Turns out, she had been twirling one tip 
of her reading glasses between her front teeth 
while the other tip was tickling her ear. 
Which she thought was me, from the row behind, 
flirting, or trying to filch one of her diamond studs.
Probably some other guy had earned it.
Or I had earned it elsewhere.
Edging my hand under Faye Brown’s iron bra, 
her dad glued to Gunsmoke downstairs. 
Teasing my ex-wife for airballing a foul shot 
in front of 20,000 fans during halftime 
at the Oakland Coliseum on taco night. 
Asking my mom, just before heading off to college,
why she let her kids be strapped
and what she got out of watching.
I was a good boy once. 
May have been an okay man.
Though the heart never believes this. 
Needs a sharp reset. A briskly wiped slate.
That’s what I missed. The clarity. 
And the wakeup doesn’t hurt much, 
requires no response.
Just blink a few times, wiggle the jaw.
Welcome rough justice. 
The curtain is rising.
Carmen is taking her mark.