From the Restaurant To Your Van
We tipped the waitress too much,
both feeling inclined
to spend our saved-up good right then.
And as the woman at the door
said, "You make a really beautiful
couple," I stepped out
into the uncertain evening:
the seven-block voyage
from the restaurant to your van.
In thirty-something degrees, your
right hand hibernates deep
in the pocket. The left, however
dangles free. Like a white crane
with open feathers, it spreads
against the black of your pea coat
and my fingers want to strangle
that bird, but a sign flashes
"Don't
Walk."
Your knuckles are lonely notches:
the vertebrae of a fetus
hanging limp. And I'd hold you
for nine months if I could,
in the belly of my palm
but we're approaching the corner.
You dig for your keys
as I wonder how many minutes
are left on the meter.
How many coins it would take
to make time stop beating on.
Copyright © Marissa La Rocca | Year Posted 2009
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