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Act II

The hall closet
is not yet free
of the debris of fifteen years
and you and I are just getting settled in, my love,
trying to get cozy in our seats,
find our place in the program.

Your leather coat swings
above her tennis racket
and the grocery cart you bought us
jams against her saxophone.

There is no libretto for this,
what intonations are thrown
when the fat lady sings?
When the chorus swells?
When the u-haul comes
and yellowed Valentine cards,
crystal glasses and the b-sides
of records
are carted away
leaving us only the appliance manuals
and our new favorite arias?

Spring Sunday

Saw a local musical today.
It was not a Greek tragedy.
Then there was a fine meal after;
I love soft shell crab, crisp linen,
the honest amber of bourbon in a glass;
the precise shade of your gaze.

Didn't contemplate
the meaning of life.
Carried the sun home in grocery bags,
held your hand all the way into town,
thought about Saturday.

It is almost May;
It rains. The grass makes a luscious squish
as we step on our neighbors lawns.
I pick flowers and plunk them
in water, weed
outdated clothes from drawers;
prune books
from the bookcase.
Soon, this will be your address, too.

There is much to sort through.
This is the season,
and there's no rush
as I chop celery and apples
for a curried chicken salad
made with Winter's leftovers.

© All Copyright, 2000, Jennifer Poteet.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.