Poem 21, June 21




I’m painting kitchen cabinets white

when you knock on the door.

I wonder who could be knocking

on a Sunday afternoon.


When I see it is you,

a flood of feelings enough

to sweep me off my feet

rushes through my blood.


You say you have been sick

& I say I know.

Your sister told me.

You say thought


I might like to see my  son.

I follow you outside.

As you pass the fender of my Ford,

I put my hand over your shoulder.


You stop. You turn to face me.

I think, Oh, hell remembering

how you felt when your best friend’s

husband put his hand in your lap


& how he felt your ass later.

I tell you I put my hand

on your shoulder to keep

you from crashing into the mirror.


I see no anger in your eyes–no fight

or flight attitude when you turn to face me.