Walk Home

        under the gumsouls of his workboots,
        leaves break like a sweat, returning
                  to the wet soil 

                   she’s waiting
             in a loosely fitting night
                       gown

           as he pleats the air’s edges 
        under his hitch-thumb a gust folds
            itself into a patch quilt

                    her hips 
           swinging like a butterfly
                     knife  

         while puffchest robins settle
         into a nest of dreamcatchers
      in the neon letters of a Walgreens

                 she’s waiting
         with her hair down and fingers 
                     bare

        as water trickles on padded paws 
         through sewer grates, rushing,
      collecting lost rings and hair ties 

                she’s waiting
         where the streets meet dead
                    ends  

        under a blanched porchroof,
sitting crosslegged on the top step, singing
         for her man to come home


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