Lowell Jaeger
She Tells Herself: This Is It
I glance at him
across the room.
He’s keeping an eye on me.
I ask him to dance,
but the jukebox plays
only songs we don’t know.
This takes all the courage I could drink
and not fall down.
I’d never done that before.
Back at my place I wake
with the radio sputtering in candlelight.
His sour breath and mine.
I snuff the candle,
snuggle in for more.
I’d never done that before.
__________
Next morning these same dull walls
echo my wooden heels
as if I’d lost myself
in an empty hall.
Too much window. Too much
bed. One more chair
than I need on my own.
Sit at the window and stare.
Wait for the phone.
Breakfast of coffee and toast.
Me and my ghost.
__________
Then he’s back, halfway
froze. Car doors won’t close.
I unlace his sneakers,
rub his toes. Fix
hot whiskey and honey.
He blows his nose.
I peel his socks,
shirt, tie.
Sunrise, I help him
find his shoes. Fold and pack
his clothes. All that week
it snows.
Here he comes.
There he goes.
