At Express, I stay on her heels
as she buzzes from one display to another.
Everything I thought green, I'm told is
sage, mint, lime and avocado.  Her
box of crayons is bigger than mine.

She banishes me to the velvet man-chair
near the try-on mirrors and folds herself
into the bathroom-stall-door dressing room
where she joins a line of legs.  I watch
her sandalwood claves as her jeans shrink
to a denim puddle around her ankles.  After five
minutes, I realize I'm looking at the wrong
legs.  I laugh but keep looking.

I carry four dresses out of the store.
None are the same size.  As we give ourselves
back to the mall, we pass another couple on their
way in, the husband pushing a stroller, the infant
slack-jawed with drool and sleeping.
Our eyes meet and we nod, not as
brothers, more like one American
recognizing another in Calcutta.  I think his smile
says, I don't think too much
		about the old days
		      when everything was green.