The first time she lied to me
was the first day we met.

No, that’s a lie.
Her first fib came before.
She was supposed to be

blonde.

Showed up

brunette.

Foot shorter than advertised,

in a huff,
lugging a bag

stuffed with old lovers.
She tried to cram me in
but her strawberry chapstick
fell out, her mascara,
her foundation crumbled.

We humored each other
like children—

knock knock jokes
and too much juice

but when the play date
was over she went home
to feed her cats,

Doc & Dopey.

Her yellow rain boots stomped
out into the desert heat,

kicking dust up
to cover her tracks.

Speed supersedes truth.
If you do it fast enough,

there is no lie.