Stooping as usual,
to ruffle your fugitive
salt-pepper-turmeric
summertime coat—
I start to think (as I often do):
Lucy, I suppose
if I'm lucky,
I'll outlive you
by a pretty huge
and consequential stretch—but then,
the sure drift
of those soft hairs
down their invisible cross-
breezes reminds me—it's not really
like that; I'm not some puzzle.
And you're not
a little piece of me
liable to go missing.
The truth is—I am a tall
and a lukewarm tap-
water glass. And you're a small
ornery ice cube;
and after you've finished
imbuing me
with your best attributes—
I shall continue
to bear the full weight of you
as we sweat here together
on the surface of this huge table,
awaiting evacuation:
down the hatch—of whatever
parched throat
flippantly motions
to swallow us both.
