Nearly Collide

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Nearly Collide


A white Cadillac
and a black sedan
nearly collide
at First and Fulham
as I stopped to cross the street
on my way home.

I found her on my front porch,
chilled to the bone,
mascara running,
claiming she dropped by to say hi
and was just about to leave.


I let her in,
put the kettle on.
She unzips her boots,
washes up.


She doesn't tell me why she's been crying,
just like I don't tell her how I still can't find a job.

She doesn't tell me to give myself credit for trying,
I don't tell her how good she looks without her makeup.


I don't feel better about myself,
she doesn't blush and kiss me on the cheek.


But eventually she does ask if she can stay.
So I play the gentleman,
give her my bed,
camp on my couch
with a blanket.


Ten minutes later she says she can't sleep,
and would I rather be little spoon or big?


She wraps her arm around me
to keep me close,
she wraps a leg around mine
as if to say
"mine."
And if she had wings she'd wrap them around me too,
because, as she'd say,
I have enough trouble with myself
without the world jumping in.

She says you're welcome,
without using a word,
because she knows
I was saying thank you
without using a word.


A black Cadillac 
and a white sedan
collide
at First and Fulham,
so I sit down
and wait for the cops.
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There you have it, post number three. (approach with trepidation)