Author: Marjorie Saiser
Format: Paperback, 90 pages
Published: October, 2010
Poems from Marjorie Saiser’s Beside You at the Stoplight
Pulling up Beside You at the Stoplight
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 you at the stoplight. There you are
in your car,
beside my car,
your profile in the window,
the brown of your hair against your neck. You turn
and blow me a kiss. I watch it float on by.
I ask for another.
I remember how you come into the dark bedroom
on weekday mornings,
the sound of your work boots across the carpet,
the scent of your face when you find me in the covers,
kiss my eyebrow and the corner of my mouth,
tell 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 woman in the white Buick
but you are embarrassed, glad to see the green.
I’m stepping on the gas, catching up,
wondering what I can do at 56th and Calvert.
No jump-starting the day,
no bare feet slapping the floor
to bath and breakfast.
in the nest
like, I suppose,
a pair of gophers
in fuzz and wood shavings.
One jostles the other
in closed-eye luxury.
We are at last
what we are: