Back From Aqueduct by Bonnie Proudfoot

Back From Aqueduct

When you and I walked in from that sooty subway station
where the rose vendor's barricade said Marîa te amo
in double bubble letters, from the no-turning-back click
of twin turnstiles, where the black-fingernailed cashier flicked
out tokens from behind her iron grating, where the only one
who met our eyes was the transit cop as he ranged from car to car --
she would still be up, waiting, apron on, the sheen of copper pots
that hung on the wall gleaming in the checkerboard floor.
No dishes leaned against the drainboard, every fingerprint
was scrubbed from the refrigerator door, and I can say it now
what is not lost and cannot be ignored, is how each bright pan
was an insinuation, every spotless tile a tactical gamble,
every chime from the clock, a demonstration of how to win.

***

by Bonnie Proudfoot

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