Two months since the last poem

 

Two months since the last poem

Two months since the last poem written whole,
about a Thursday spent alone, on a night so still
the table fan could not stir the heat. Two months
and it's November and the radiator clanks itself awake.

Why in the two months since you left
did words leave too? I said it was work—too many
engineers with their badly built sentences to edit. Two months
and I've lived with my work, spent most nights with the cat,
and a few with a Brazilian lover so young and sweet
there was nothing to write about. Until now

on this first Saturday of November when I can
turn to last Thursday night, but this one
spent at your place, sharing a pizza and rocky road
ice cream in coffee mugs. I brought you the tapes
left at my place, and you gave me the books
left at yours, and then we warmed ourselves on the sofa,
under the comforter pulled from your bed, still separate,
but less than one arm's length apart.