My music is life’s distant din, out here alone after dusk;
traffic two streets east, a neighbor’s screen door slamming loose,
the evening nothing settling warm and cool
like lace on my bare arm, in March. I made coffee,
strong after dark, daring, going to sip slow,
leave a cool half cup unfinished by the end
of this chapter called ease, while boys play quiet,
the dishwasher hums, clothes rock clean in another era;
matters beyond the porch door, inside where I am not.
That place is no breeze, no lantern light,
no pressing-in-night of a singsong, soft-lullaby, sun-struck day.
No, I am not in there, breathing shallow. I am hiding outside
in my sharing place, generously giving the woman I am
a whispering-while, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies,
legs under the softest blanket I’ve ever owned,
feet tucked up, knees bent to one side, and a special waiting,
as if this moment beneath the stars stretches into forever.