Domestic Matters
Aug 17 2008


She probably saw it
all along.
The way women know these things.
The way they remember.

After all
it was just getting together, hanging around;
or — old-fashioned as it sounds —
a date.
And then
I couldn’t help myself, picturing her face
— standing at the sink,
trying to sleep,
idling at intersections
when the light turned green.
Infatuation, you’d have to say;
which would be madness
if it happened any other way.

Until friends became lovers, one day
— her place
all night long.

Now, it’s been years
and we’re still in love;
but somewhere in there
more partners than lovers.
Which makes me think of business cards,
a legal practice
— our specialty, domestic matters,
like clogged drains
cooking supper.

They call this attachment,
a kind of intimacy I could never have imagined
that day,
fumbling with her blouse
in the back row of the movie house
— the Bijou, or the Palace.
The first kiss
when all the walls came down,
and I could feel her eager tongue
just as hungry as mine.

Now every night,
each partner turns down the lights
bids the day good-bye.
And takes his or her lover
like the very first time.