You will, I see it clearly,
stroll in through the back,
letting the screen door slam
and sit at my kitchen table.
You will train your hazel eyes on me
and I will not ask a hundred
questions about the afterlife.
I will only want to feed you.
I will make a pot of lentil soup
because doing it right will take
a couple of hours at least.
I will bake bread too,
and you will have to wait, sweetheart
as the dough rises.
My second favorite part:
the way you’ll say, "Because
you're the only chicken-legged
poet I know," supplying the answer before I ask,
"Do you remember why you loved me?"
My favorite part: just watching
while you eat, slurping,
maybe spilling on your blouse,
for a moment almost human.