404 E. Spruce

(3 January 1980)

We are both
climbing the walls.

After seven days
like animals caged
in this dingy little
basement room
          where at noon
          you still
          leave the lights
          on (yellow bulbs
          bare
          on the ceiling).

We are both
being
extremely polite.

We don't fight.
But you stake a claim
to whatever chair's
in the furthest corner
from where
I am.

And I find excuses
to stay in the shower
a little longer
to give you time
to reclaim the space
I've been calling mine
these seven days.

There is caring
between us,
sharing of words
and smoke and magic,
a liquid communion
of flesh
that leaves us
awkward and breathless.

That just makes it worse;
we are never sure
where a casual touch
will lead. We need
and fear
the crazy
conflagration
our bodies kindle.

You sleep.
Alone
at last.
And I
here at your table
ponder this candle-lit
empty stage set
where you and I
have played so much drama
this week that's passed.

At last
I can find
our separate threads
that entangle themselves
so completely in bed
or in playing Scrabble.
I see our pattern,
          loosely woven.


Two days
and I'll leave.
Your apartment will be
again your own.
Eventually
you'll clean up the roaches,
finish my food,
find the sock
I'll undoubtedly leave
and probably miss me.
And meanwhile my car
with me at the wheel
will be winding the roads,
remembering
your sleepy smell
and the holes in your shirt.

Our time is for learning,
apart or together.
Our armored truce
in this cellar room
has taught me some tricks
to take on the road
till we meet again.

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