Many Mornings After
I sit behind the steering
wheel, in the parking lot
of the grocery store
and think of paradise.
I see you instead of angels,
the shadowy places of the room
we loved in, small as a postage
stamp, and recall how your
kisses moved me to
the edge of ecstasy--
a place as foreign as paradise.
Through the windshield
I watch a man spit on
the asphalt in front
of me and take the
hand of a woman with
dirty hair. I wonder
if she minds him at all--
I wonder if she thought
of paradise today.
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