Like Love Is A Heart

He’s everywhere I go.
Turn onto Silver, there he is.
Dark car, right taillight
blown, yellow dog tail 
wagging like a wiper
in the rear window. Later
there he is driving easy
through town past Elm
& Main, where I wait for green.

Before we ever kissed,
I loved his beautiful
dog, her eyes, his face,
how tall he was and
how blond and his beard. Every
time we met, he opened
his arms like wings. So tired
of myself that early spring
after months alone
with snow, I stepped
right into them.

Near the end he took me
to the ball field after dark
to show me the way
they sprint the bases. I’d never
seen him run like that:
under stars in
wet grass, from one clear
place to another, exuberant
muzzle yipping at his knee.
Look at him go.

Yesterday outside the market
I parked alongside his car, kissed
the dog so excited to see me
through the cracked window.
I couldn’t find him
in the aisles. Nor at the freezer
where we always went
to get popsicles, him stealing
my private habit of taking them
to bed at all hours. Next to his mattress
I once found five wrappers, inside
each a hued wooden strip
laid neatly to rest. All together
they made the shape
of a family. I made a point
to gather and toss them
before I left in case
the dog could not resist.

You haven’t known me
long enough, I said
in bed, to promise things
like that. He knew enough,
he said, rested his hand
on my hip and pressed. I hate it
when they do that. Like I’m easy
to love. Like love is a heart
he can sit behind
the wheel of, drive
through town, windows
down, dog and girl along
for the ride, as if he’ll never
ever change his mind.