Off the Interstate
in the Ramada, but still
traveling in my head,
I’m alone in a too big room,
rattling around beds, desks, chairs,
an empty tv.  I’ve returned
to the city I came first as a bride,
my young husband, younger
then than my sons are now.
His first job after college,
into the real world. We were
wed with all that lace,
rice, veiled view
of everything wonderful,
so alive nothing could touch us.

We bought a polished house.
I planted roses and raspberries,
saved S&H behind green shutters,
green trim, tall greened pines.  Even
the kitchen was green, walls, counters,
and bathroom tile, green.  I painted
the kitchen pink.  I could make one dish
for every day of the week.  Monday
was meatloaf.  Sent that husband off
every day in shirt and tie, blue and white
seersucker suit.  All the women stayed
home, hung sheets on the line,
made congealed salads
and layer cakes.

Now from a far room
I hear someone playing flute.
In a distant time, if I listen
hard enough, I can hear
the sound of his car
in the drive, his footsteps
on the porch.

© by Ruth Moose.
Used with the author’s permission.