You with the smile,

the sweet rust smile.

In the pleated apron

(dahlias blooming under ruffles

like crooked cream-bled teeth,

Dangling from antiquity,

Your grandma’s old necklace).

-

You with the tin smile,

Reserved for everyone and nobody,

The one that welcomes hummingbirds

Through shaken glass.

You spoon honey into old couples’ teas.

-

You with the checkbook,

In the patch pocket,

With the pen tucked in the folds,

With the chipped nail-polish

And salmon lip gloss.

-

You who bends over carefully,

Like a yellow tulip in spring,

To listen to the bacon and eggs, sunny-side-up please,

Or maybe the English muffin, honey spread upside, too.

-

You with the ballerina step,

Graceful and light,

Like the folds of sheets on Sunday morning with the sun spilling down fountain-wise, in between.

-

You who dreams of small things

That seem so big when cast in the color of your eyes.

-

You who never noticed me waiting behind the door.

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This was written a while ago...I miss writing.