Red pen in a small book kept scribbling poems and
I scribbled back. Stick figures on edges (wide-eyed)
drew faces messy and fat. Lines were washed
with ball point, and without an eraser I crossed out this
and that to fit it in my back pocket. I showed them
to whoever would look. Sometimes she read them.
But mostly, she read the news.
Lately on my sofa bed I hunch over my computer, that
kind of night. Or at dawn I watch the sun come over
the tall buildings and pout, a pasture of red pooling on
the countertop. She was an anxious host, but it didn’t
show. The distracted ones are more aware than we
give them credit for.
We used to watch television. Unclear if anyone actually
liked the show, but one time we sat in that single room
and stared for 24 hours straight, serial enjoyment against
the fierce snow outside. Ate Chinese food with our
fingertips and ceded the last scallion pancake. Then she
looked up suddenly bereft saying I should have left half an hour ago.