At your mom’s house
we stay up late on the weekends like teenagers,
stuffing our faces until 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning,
Our runaway note saying:
“Went to Target, Be back in an hour.”
but we’re sitting in The Godfather
at Palisades Mall parking lot
Laughing and singing to the radio
while the stars come out.
In the morning I sit in the backyard
drinking English breakfast
and shaking my head every so often
so that the flies know I’m not a statue.
The soft breeze helps me to write poetry
and make lists of fish, fruit and cheeses
for our wedding cocktail hour.
The sound of a neighbor cutting grass soothes me
like the sun on my back.
Otherwise I would still be in your childhood bed,
wedged in like a sardine
between a cool wall and your body.