Staying Too Long

He asked if it was always
this busy. I said, “No. Busier.”
I wanted to eat with him then
when his smile lit up a dark day.

And I did, staying too long –
each of us with people waiting –
his wife, my husband.

But there were things that
needed saying: his fifth grade
broken arm, my long desire
for a man who had broken his
arm in fifth grade.

And the days fell into step
meeting there, a deli as it
happened, and I can say I
loved even as we said we
wouldn’t, assuring ourselves
the hotel room was just once,
twice and the amount of time
it takes to stop counting.

I told myself these things
happen: a deli, a room, a man
with whom I never should
have, this man with whom
I did.

Our Love

When our love has become
pigeons daily,

when we lie in bed lying to one
another about the weekend –

neither of us wanting to harm
the pigeons,

I look in your eyes after you’ve
gone to take a shower, and they

are neither yours nor mine.

Some part of me – the lightning
perhaps, quick to know where

to go, that part wants the
summer place and the dog.

That fast I don’t care about the
rest of it as you drop the soap.

“Are you all right?” I call to you –
out of habit, out of time,

from the sidelines.