Sunday With Erica

Like some old-fashioned wife you served me bacon, eggs, and coffee Later (Sunday afternoon) you were curled up with a plush chair working a crochet needle building Barbie blankets while Lions slaughtered Bears on a twenty-four inch screen. I lounged on a recliner like the man of the house in some domestic fantasy A commercial break intrudes along with reality: I was in your house only because it was cold last night and you feared for me Sunday evening, Isaac Hayes and Curtis Mayfield serenaded us on your parents' love-worn shiny disks of vynil and you danced around the living room; I watched, munching chocolate morsels but behind my attentive eyes was a nagging thought This is a scene from a film I watch each night before reading myself to sleep but you are not the dancer; across the room, a child laughs (but she is not here) the living room belongs to me and the dancer who, as she dips and twirls, pours steam from her eyes to mine and the child tugs my sleeve wailing "Daddy, read me to sleep!" and outside the window is an endless summer suburb where the whole world smells and sounds of fresh cut grass and the urgent rhythmic creaking of a billion crickets and later, my modern wife will curl up beside me while we watch the nightly dance of Tigers and Orioles on a twelve-inch screen Still later, a quiet moment with a book and a girl who believes this scenes will last forever Still later, tender moments cloaked in satin with my dancer... The music and football game have ended you toddle off to bed, and I retreat to your couch where I read myself to sleep in your house only because it's cold tonight and a sheen of tears blur the pages of my mystery novel because I mourn the dancer and the childit's been brought to my attention that it was a mistake to delete this and many other poems from my page...so this one's back, and others will follow. Sorry, folks. Written February 1st, 2002 © on Feb 01 2002 04:18 AM PST   10 • 0