She liked a well made thing. She elbows-out pressing her coffee. Then the foot-tapping wait.
She told me her anecdotes. The sentiment always the same. The moral never anything heavy.
Then I watch her laying on the sofa with a book in the sunlight. I want to lay with her with my face in her belly skin. I watch the coffee steam until it goes cold.
Her face contorting with this, no that. Every thought occurring to her except the presence of me.
Memories of fondling her that morning.
The ice cream stand outside. The chubby ice cream-faced toddler. Glad as a sailor at war's end.
Me open-arms screaming at God. I do not lay with her with my face in her nurturing belly skin.
My one way ticket to England, I will leave her in the cold clandestine morning.
Why, a story for God to tell her in her crying-dreams.
