You say
Sundays were so lonely
for I had not whispered under your skin yet;
no one splashing in the shower, no blueberry
pancakes on the griddle or New York Times
scattered like broken paper fans across
the living room floor.
A wood pop from the stove, snort of dogs
curled for its heat;
you stared at white mounds shivering in the wind,
silence sheeting in snow drifts,
sometimes a stray bird pecking at dark spots;
not even God kept you company.
You walked a cloistered journey,
walls of your cave closing in,
voices screaming in broken nights offering
advice, “No relationships, no complications.”
So you drank one more beer, slept, dreamed
of green-eyed mannequins in masks,
Yeats riding a red swan.
After Sundays, came Mondays. More days.
And I was waiting up that long Saturday road,
washing purple tablecloths, writing sonnets to the dead,
dreaming of lost house keys, being late for a class,
waiting, waiting
for us to save our lives.
