Monday - July 18, 2005
Because I came in too early.
Late
If I added all the hours I’ve spent waiting for you,
they would celebrate their own anniversary.
They would have their own secret language of
raised eyebrows, gray hair tucked behind ears.
They would have silent fights in sunlit rooms,
measuring their paces on polished tiles.
Dust would not cling to their curtains.
Night would bring peace to their faces
But the next day, their children would know.
Their children will grow up respectful of
words, and the fragility of bare spaces, and
fold their blankets before they leave.
They will call one another at the proper time.
They will talk menus, motifs, misdirection.
They will collect relatives and coach them to yell
happy anniversary within seconds of the door
Opening, and who should be gaping there but
you, late as usual.