pulling up beside my husband at the stoplight :: marge saiser
We are going to the same place
but we take two cars.
Sunday morning and there’s not much traffic,
so I pull up beside him at the stoplight.
There he is, in his car,
beside my car,
the profile of his face in the window,
the brown of his hair against his neck. He turns
and blows me a kiss.
I watch it float on by. . . . I ask for another.
I remember then how he wakes me on the workday mornings,
his boots across the carpet of the dark bedroom,
the scent of his face when he locates me in the covers,
kisses my eyebrow and the corner of my mouth,
tells me the weather report
and the precise time of day.
So. . . I roll down my window, whistle in my throat,
pull my glasses crooked on my face,
do my best baboon snorting,
pound the horn as if it were bread dough.
There is only the lady in the white Buick,
but he is embarrassed, glad to see the green.
Me–I’m stepping on the gas, catching up,
wondering what I can do at 56th and Calvert.