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