Again

Sometimes, I can see to there,
snow drifts curled over as tall
as you are. Thick brown coat,
nose reddened, hunching down in
your fleece collar against
a burst of sideways wind, fixing
a fence, honest work, clumsy
in gloves, twisting barbed wire and
wood so it stands solid while
 the old red truck waits on
the snow packed road with the
engine running; a comforting sound
against the windy aloneness. You
don't think about me.

Or I can see you there whistling,
stacking dry, cleaned packs in the
big metal shed, musing aloud on
what's for lunch and thinking about
the afternoon chores ahead. You are
joking with the others, pure anticipation,
and looking out the window to
remind yourself, only two months
but still winter. You are waiting for me.

Sometimes, I can see the sloping
street and a young woman walking
with long strides in a tight skirt
and heels, industrious and
contented with her projected
life, down the sparkly pavement
of Geary Street in San Francisco
until a cool breeze and a warm
sun make her slow and lean in,
trying to smell the sea. You are me.

Or I can see the room again
as I left it with a maid making the bed,
drawing the cheap, gold patterned
coverlet up over the one pink blanket,
shutting the window and turning down
the heat. Did she notice the room
almost unused and how the wastebasket
had gum and a funeral card in it?
You never saw me. I never saw you.

It's all happening again,
in my mind as
the streams of my memories
become my thoughts; take over the
the car wash, the close my eyes for a
second, nap, the drive to work. It's
happening again,
in my life; going on with
me, going on without me, going on
comforting or sad, homesick or
shuddering, going on.