Gratitude

If I were the young mother
pushing the Mercedes-Benz of strollers,
calmly but with fiercely
controlled breaths discussing with my mother
via cell phone as I walked--my only
exercise, my only sanity--why Darren
and I really could afford what she described
as a crushing mortgage,
I’m sure I would have stopped
talking, walking, mouth open with a word
half in, half out, staring;
but would I have said, “Mom, I’ll
call you right back”; would I have hung
up and pressed my suddenly trembling
fingertip, with its shamedly-bitten nail,
to the numbers of the phone in order:
nine, one, one?
Would I have said, in answer to the businesslike
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“There’s a woman screaming
out the window of an old orange
Chevy truck: ‘Help me,
please help me, please
call the police,’ so I did”?
Nevermind Mom, Darren, or Godforbidthebaby,
asleep in the shock-absorbed stroller:
there was a woman, and she
was wearing a pink cashmere sweater, and she
was screaming. Would I have?
Doesn’t matter. She did, and when the cops
came, I thanked her.

Maple Viewing

Drums in the garden
Leaves turning colors of koi
Your heart against mine.

After Canlis

I approach my shadowy self in the plate glass,
touch warm to cold fingertips and join,
gazing out over the city. Amber lights and white,
syrupy in the rain, slide the streets below.
“Put Bardahl In Your Oil” flashes red and resolute
like fatherly advice. The drawbridge is going up,
creak almost audible, lights of each side
slowly separating.

You come to me; I see you mirrored in the window
before my eyes lower at your touch, the traffic
of my nerve endings
scattering a blaze of light. We keep very still. Sinatra
joins us gradually, layering sound
upon our lovers’ silence. Our window selves
can’t hear him, we are caught
in one another, electrical current
of sense, sight of our selves slipped into one
reflection, city laid out before us, bejeweled and glowing,
the bridge comes back down, its two
lights merge, painstaking and achingly become one.