The super worked all day
as a conductor on the subway
and in the evenings as a dominatrix.
She lived above me. I heard a mix
of pain and pleasure—impossible
to tell the difference in that studio full
of my own silence. On the front stoop
I ran into her clients, who drooped
in exhausted gratitude.
Once, I knocked.
When she cracked
the door I could see she’d been crying.
Behind her, a TV blued
the room; something was frying
on the stove. I had a small concern.
She told me, I’ll get to you in turn.
Copyright © 2025 by Wayne Miller. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 22, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
