The wait is joyful
in the sense that
assurance of your return
is in your razor,
your toothbrush,
your pajama pants,
but they are not guarantees.
You are out of arm's reach
on a rainy road at dusk
out of sight
after days of filling
my cornea--
in danger because you
are not near enough
for me to save.
Yet I pretend the wait
is joyful so as not to
look too relieved
when your key enters the lock
and your body materializes
in my field of vision--
so as not to tell you
that I worry about you,
that I fear for you.
The wait is joyful
in the sense that
you have always returned.

06/21/2002

Posted on 06/21/2002
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