Convention

Maybe I never understood that your return was you choosing me; choosing us.

Maybe all I saw was the leaving

            -and the leaving was you saying goodbye to me.

And just plausibly the line from Grand Central to Bronxville was painted less with anticipation

            -and more with self-assumed amnesty for you.

Two years ago-

            I waited in ivory silk and tulle

I lingered in the impressions of red tiled walls and smog filled terminals.

I bid my time beneath the thin epidermis blinding me

            -and I saw my veins slowly fade just as if I were falling asleep and not sitting on a park bench.

Just as I stood sentinel eleven years ago-

            ivory knuckles wrapped around her antiseptic and chrome cradle.

Folded hands pressed against the frigid dogwood box.

Perhaps the whole of my linear existence has been defined in lovely waiting.

I stowed away her last glossy impressions in a thin cardboard box beneath the bed.

            I hope the lid gathers dust.

Yesterday I spoke a greeting when a man sat beside me on the bench.

            And my lips curled benevolently when he left.

I tore my metro asunder; in its wake the keys to my father’s old Pontiac.

I held my friend’s hand as I passed to her folds of silken promises.

Today I will leave and I will understand choosing.