Recurrence
If she sees him on the
street today
as she sometimes does when
dropping off her laundry,
she will tell him,
“Talking to you is like swallowing glass.
I can’t talk to you anymore.”
Or, perhaps, with a distracted wave,
“I can’t talk now, I’m late for yoga.”
He is not anywhere to be seen, though,
as she walks up the usual
street, laundry cart leading the way.
Nor is he in his office, which she cannot stop
herself from glancing up at as she walks
out onto the street from the laundromat.
The windows are shut tight.
Going to yoga is like swallowing glass.
street today
as she sometimes does when
dropping off her laundry,
she will tell him,
“Talking to you is like swallowing glass.
I can’t talk to you anymore.”
Or, perhaps, with a distracted wave,
“I can’t talk now, I’m late for yoga.”
He is not anywhere to be seen, though,
as she walks up the usual
street, laundry cart leading the way.
Nor is he in his office, which she cannot stop
herself from glancing up at as she walks
out onto the street from the laundromat.
The windows are shut tight.
Going to yoga is like swallowing glass.
posted by Sarah Sometimes at 12:14 AM
2 Comments:
Beautiful.
But really, you need to find a new place to do your laundry.
jo(e): thanks for the comment. I'm glad you liked the poem. And, of course, you're right about the second thing. I'm going to go play volleyball now, which is the antidote to walking on the laundry street.
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