You will say goodbye to him
on your front stoop, a long goodbye
but unemotional, the #14 bus
drowning out your voices every 15 minutes.
You will spend many years alone,
choosing the color of your walls,
throwing away the unused lettuce,
pouring curdled milk down the sink.
You will believe for ages that you meant
next to nothing. Eight years, to be exact,
until he writes. You will agree to meet
for coffee after nearly saying no.
There will be new lines around his mouth,
though his green eyes will look the same.
They will bring back all the good
you made yourself forget.
He will tell of many years on his own
chopping wood, hauling water, baking bread,
with only the sounds of the radio droning,
a dog snoring, Lake Superior pounding the shore.
He will come to your home with a wide porch
and broad maple out front, a dream house
but too big, you’ve realized, for one. He will
ring this doorbell, stand quietly on the stoop.
You will wear tight jeans and tomato red,
your cheeks flushed to match. He will remove
his shoes and walk in, all the way to the view
of the garden, no hovering at the threshold.
