The lamp overhanging
my neighbor’s back door
shutters on, flickers
like language.
A stutter. Morse code.
The incandescence
then swallows itself,
clicks off as the foyer light
warms the evening.
A mistake – they
clipped the wrong switch.
I still take it as a hello,
a good evening,
a happy spring,
an “isn’t the weather fine?”
I need it to be.
(2020)
The days this lifts
we’ll flood the streets.
Will you get naked,
relish the air, lick the
filth of Manhattan Ave?
What a relief it will be,
what a relief.
The day this lifts
I’ll throw clothes in a bag – unthinking,
blaze down 95 – unblinking,
bang down the red diamond door and oh
What a reunion it will be,
what a reunion.
The day this lifts
we’ll shake the proverbial champagne and spray.
Will you take a sip for the occasion,
get drunk on talk and warm bodies,
fall asleep touching elbows?
What a night we will have,
what a night.
The day this lifts
I’ll let him go.
Or maybe I won’t.
Either way, my heart
will keep up the thaw
and eventually
What a Spring it will be,
what a Spring.
The day this lifts
will we be any different?
Will you still seek deep comfort?
Will I still conceal a dark heart?
Will our minds be wiped clean
like grime from windows in rain?
What a test it will be.
What a test it will have been.
What a test.
(2020)
(photo by Jennifer Hart)
