Too sugary--you call me Sweetie--
but here we are, broken ribs
and babysitting your new grandson.
As your bones knit we spend hours
purling the separate sleeves of our stories
to our common new lives in Maine.
The first night you come to dinner
I want to use the dishwasher,
but you fondle the plates with a dish towel.
It's the least I can do, you say. At home
my meals are in front of the refrigerator.
You wipe a plate. Sweetie, you say,
you're a writer.
Write about what you fear.
Take off your counselor's hat, Barb.
I just want you for a friend.
The pinks and blues and the yellows--
hot colors and a dash of the wild!
Spiked hair of a pixie and mischievous grin
covering deep-seated people-wisdom.
Your dogs you treat like your babies.
Baby chortles with joy.
Sons shine like the stars they are
in your sky.
Friendships fill a hundred lifetimes;
Visits of pain and loneliness and
T.V. news fill the space in your bed,
but shoots of forgiveness begin to show.
Homecoming starts to grow.
Oh, my friend.
I am afraid, you say on Wednesday night.
A different pain. What if I die alone?
You're not going to die!
On Friday you say, "I feel great!"
On Sunday--
heartbroken, misguided soothsayer, I.
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