Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007
A ladle, a vacuum, an old park bench.
I shop only for luxuries.
All the other things I think you’ll have
so I don’t buy them
just in case
and its either you inside another woman
or inside my ceramic bowls, mixing your
old silverware with mine and forgetting
which one of us owned that pot
I’ll tell you why this scares me:
her face in your hands and all
our children and my drivers’
license and what if I want to go
back to New York, save some
cash, do without your
our two futons? Your passport.
My career. Your concerns regarding
freedom. What the hell.
I would burn the grass for you,
sit silently on the back porch
still and waiting for
you to be not home all night.