In the Meantime
is the mean
time, that malicious wait-and-see,
in-between time,
until we set our clocks
back to save the daylight.
Destination: Orange
I thought that the suburb 35 miles
from Los Angeles would be much like the
suburb 35 miles from Chicago,
but we wander into a pub where
the bartender congratulates two women
on getting back together and a man
with long, gray hair has a 10-inch hunting
knife in a leather sheath strapped to his waist.
When we walk the few blocks home, we look up
to find the source of the squawks: green parrots
negotiating their own rules in trees,
the kind of which we’ve never seen before.
My lover says, edgier, then adds,
complicated. Yes, I say, wanting it.
This and That
is the don’t-pin-me-down response.
It is the fear of voicing the idea too soon,
or revealing the secret no one wants.
It averts the fireworks:
either that palm-tree spread of leaves
that twinkle themselves out with awe,
or the burst and burn inside the chest,
sparks singing ribs.
It is better than the shrug of shoulders,
so we ignore what it might mean.
