Sheath

Comparing the size

of our hands,

fingers and fronts aligned,

printed and palmed,

nervous and calmed,

convexes filling hollows,

concaves where fallow;

my chilly tips

pressed 'gainst your

warm mitts,

the roughened edges 

only just familiar.  

Where the 

Ends extend,

bend;

mismatched pairs

wrap and fold,

Properly. 

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

Carlos,

who once gave me his

number, scrawled nervously 

on a yellow sticky note,

brown and blushing

beside his large white coach,

places his hand over his white

uniformed breast pocket,

and tells me I get 

prettier and prettier,
and prettier and prettier,

everyday,

and his heart cannot bear it. 

He emplores

me to call him

mi amor,

our passing daily Spanish lesson,

and uninvitedly caresses my finger tips,

during this brief morning boarding

he praises my

shedded winter wardrobe,

and calls me a fabulous 

young multi-lingual lady,

just the kind he needs. 

Oh, Carlos,

rotund and moderately melanin-packed,

I do hope

you will find someone

who will call you 

amor. 

Sitting in the sun

I want you

so badly

I never want 

to see you again. 

At the very end, I'd do it all again

Tonight

out walking

the too-early summer

pressing on my cheeks,

he walks by,

wrapped bundle hoisted

in bared arms;

the assumed 

shh-shh-shh

bounce-bounce-bounce

whispered in time to

my heart's reply:

I remember this.