Mornings, well

I’m up, feeling

the new curve of my back

a far forward lean.

I think—some man

sitting on the empty side

of the bed,

what would...

Downstairs, kitchen

I feed the dog, the cat

in that order

or there is no order.

I think if there was

a man who cared,

I’d be in a white cotton nightgown

one that he likes, but not lace.

He’d tap my arm,

tilt his head in joking.

Yesterday’s peach, half banana,

the bowl with corn flakes,

I didn’t put in the sink,

there was no dinner, that would change.

And the vase,

the one the kids gave me

stands dusty, it is just

on the table. If there was a man here,

the vase would hold one

of those roses outside,

as maybe a surprise,

he would wait

for me to notice.

And I, instead of sitting in the sun alone,

noticing and memorizing California sky,

how many thousand mornings have I charted the sky

as though I’m sick, in last days of being alert,

this man and I would

pour juice, make coffee,

and sit outside, in the shade.

I would remember

his face during the day.