What I like about this one is
she doesn’t pose
when photographing her reflection
with her cell phone
in a department store dressing room
while wearing a black and off-red
New Years Eve cocktail dress.
I still think about you
in your slim fitting
smooth, pressed
Katharine Hepburn slacks
because you always felt
your legs unworthy
of dresses.
You despised laundry
eternally piled, overflowing
from plastic baskets
as we wondered how two people
a man and woman
could have so much filth
between them.
I return each night
to our dark home
having forgotten
to leave the front light on
feel for the copper colored keys
stick them into slits
the teeth lifting the key pins
and I hope to find you
in the kitchen, a roast simmering
sweet potatoes baking
an open bottle of wine
James Taylor playing
and your thin arms ready to wrap
around my ungrateful body.
Instead, the plug of the lock turns
I twist the knob while fumbling
with junk mail, a chunky cell phone
a laptop bag and a cavernous heart
to reveal a dark home
our two dogs barking
and a blue text message from a woman
other than you.
