Tenderly
laughing
in her sleep.
It is pretty, she said.
But it belongs to her, not me.
The neighbor’s
orange tom,
I believe.
The creature
loves everyone,
even me.
But when it greets her
through the screen,
she thinks it’s asking
for my wife —
so unsure is she,
so little her self-esteem.
A forgotten necklace,
dress, or diamond?
Quite possibly,
or a girl’s soft
white hand.
Held tenderly,
it might have been
her own.
Frail now,
addressing whom?
November 1, 2006
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