In a packed booth, 
my shoulder rests 
against your arm.

You blanket your omelet 
with coarse pepper.
I shower my salad with it.

I want some heat 
on my tongue,
the spice of your lips 
on my neck.

First familiar chords 
blast from jukebox.

We get lost 
between verse
and refrain 

as our server trades
tray for mic,
jumps onto a half wall
to sing for tips. 

Surrounded by music,
laughter, scrape of forks
on plates, I press
my thigh against yours.

We are the mouth 
of a newborn fire.
                        

I'm wandering the aisles of Wegman's
on autopilot with an army
of after-work shoppers –

one cart has a quart of milk, 
a bag of lettuce and two apples.
A woman in a suit has a basket 
brimming with Amy's Kitchen.

I grab a family-sized tub 
of spring mix, a gallon of Lactaid.
two boxes of yogurt popsicles,
and four boxes of quinoa pasta. 

The cost is high.

When the boys were little,
we shopped on Thursdays -
a big day out on the town.
They strained against seat 
belts as I pushed them 
in cart masquerading as a car. 

I just wanted them safe.

We fought over junk food.
I gave in to Matchbox cars
or some small toy.

I always worried about the cost of things.

Tonight, I'm waiting for one son
to return from the Wisconsin woods
where the ticks are infected with Lyme.
I'm praying the other one back
from the center of a black hole.

I'm imagining what it would be like to live alone.

I half-listen to music on the drive 
home, lug groceries 
and my work bag
into the house, throw mail 

on kitchen table. Sinking 
into the sofa I watch 
House Hunters International,
eat chips with sour cream for dinner.