How lovely a woman is, who
not finding something in her purse, pauses
puzzled, and tilts her head while the light
washes sideways. Something begins to tap
or to roll, and the restaurant heels.
Its sails fill on the other tack: she
makes a decision – the medicine
was left on the counter at home, perhaps,
or her daughter made off with the hairbrush –
it is this ordinary world that I do not want to leave
and it is not that she knows I saw her
or that the wave of light, breaking over me
will leave anything steady or true.
No. The click of the clasp as she closes
her purse, it ticks in my fingertips,
and I want to say, “Don't go.”