Curve of rib.
as in a painting.
a roadwork of white
bicep and forearm.
Not one penetrates.
Hurried, hunched over in the hard
rain drops ringing in my coffee cup,
the snow melting,
I couldn’t help thinking of you.
Was it your leaking roof,
those red Hills Brothers coffee cans
on counters and floors catching
winter rain in your house
and the fog and melting snow
that made you feel invisible
as you looked out your kitchen window
into the cotton white,
then the crushing grind of an airplane
overhead that brought you back?