Wednesday, January 31, 2018


"Active 56 minutes ago"
And then I wonder,
so where is he now?
Did he take the dog for a walk
through the sharp night air?
Did he remember his gloves,
or is he cursing the rough chill on fingers entwined in a leash?
Is he making love to his wife
(because it's Wednesday,
so sex is on the schedule)?
Or is he ending her argument with the kids to
because dads have a way of winning those fights.
And how about now?
Is he taking off his pants,
and climbing beneath a heavy quilt,
as the drafts in his old house
whisper from corners and hover in hallways.
Is he thinking of that girl at the office,
the one that is too pretty to be real,
but too sweet to be fake?
Does he picture her in quiet, rhythmic moments?
Or has someone else captured his imagination?
...he said he doesn't have an imagination anymore.
He said it like he believed that having an imagination
wasn't safe, or maybe just didn't have value.
I wanted to grab his face between my hands
(I imagine palms on furry cheeks, and how his eyes would look that close up)
and say to him,
"Of course you have an imagination--
you can't love music like you do without one!
You can't make jokes like you do without one,
or leap into mine like you have...without one."
But I didn't move,
and I only said the first two things.
Because that is how we behave in Real Life Grown-Up Land.
Or so I'm told.

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