I try not to watch the couple.
To drown their words,
I turn Pavarotti louder.
The man and woman face each other,
cast against the movie screen
of their white garage door.
The woman counts off
the man's transgressions
on her fingers,
extends her arms
as if measuring:
"I am this mad;"
"You are this full of shit."

The man holds a helmet,
his bicycle balanced
against a stone wall.
He doesn't move when he speaks,
rooted like a willow.
The woman brushes off his words
like so many cracker crumbs,
disappears inside.

He wants to follow her.
I urge him forward,
remind him of her vanilla hair,
the curve of her neck,
the taste of her.
Ivy creeps onto their driveway,
curled back on itself
in lush dark mounds.

Published in Wind Magazine, #83, Spring 2000