A Poem: 3:15 SATURDAY, BOONTON

Thunder cracks open

a pounding rain that rinses clean

your new marigolds

and winter’s grime.

 

You tromp back out for the avocado

while i stay behind

to unload our bags from earlier

and figure out where everything belongs.

 

I browse your saints and sinners—

Mary and Frida

Jesus and Genet

Buddha and The Book Thief,

“Finest in the marketplace,” you’d say—

and light candles

(though the storm may be clearing),

pressing pretzel crumbs into a napkin at the table,

 

just one more trace of me here,

as you climb back up the stairs

and i wonder

what else we might be missing.

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