Gasoline
For five years now
I’ve lived in a near-constant state of alert.
Diligently mowing the back lawn,
But half-expecting you to walk through my fence gate
With your big smile
Like nothing ever happened.
Drenched in sweat for the moment you finally came back.
Or at work,
Where I glance up,
My concentration broken,
And wonder briefly whether today is the day
You’ll come around the corner.
And of course,
Every time the phone rings,
I silently hope it’s you,
Even though I know you’re gone.
My only concept of heaven
Would be a place
Where the phone rings and it could be you,
Where I look up from my desk
And I could have a miraculous visitor,
Where you still love me
Though I smell like cut grass and gasoline.