At your mom’s house

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.





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