You Antimacassar You
Even as she writes this, she sees you walking on the Camino
Del Monte Cristo, the sounds of Spanish
so foreign, but certainly not you:
shoulders thrown back, head cocked
to the mountains and the afternoon game.
you pick up the ball from the curb
and toss it to the kid wishing you could play
instead of sprawling in front of the T.V. whooping
and hollering for the Red Sox. Only during
the commercials, only when your beer is emptied
do you glance at your shelves, picking up
a rock, her rock, remembering when you opened
it, finding at its center, a fossil, a star.
The last time she saw you
was like the space between time zones,
like when two people float toward
each other but the distance
cannot be crossed. She told you
she did not want to be your collectible,
not even a star fossil, but even when
she said it , she wanted to fold you
into a book, to be hidden in some dark
corner of a library under some arcane
topic from another zone like
antimacasssars, but even then you
would walk off, even then you,
without a glance, would walk off ,
wearing only star-crocheted
lace on your head.
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