I watch her check her mail
while she waits for her salad in the pub.
She'll pack it up and take it back to her room.
She can relax then and let go a bit,
kick off her espadrilles,
the ones she had hand made in Spain
by Lika Mamika.
Maybe she'll wait until later to open her laptop.
The afternoon light glints off the Neponset
and reflects in her half rims.
The thick page boy colored to match
her russet blouse and matching capri's.
Not bad for her age, as they say.
My age.
Good hands, thick gold rings.
Married well with a good job besides?
Somebody in charge, a decision maker.
I am sure her garden is bright with flowers.
Well ordered, controled , always in balance.
She is ruthless with the plants
that do not bend to her command.
Beneath her wide-brimmed sea grass hat,
her eyes search the ground for the errant plant.
The trowel plunges into the earth again and again.
At dusk she comes into the kitchen,
lays her gloves on the black marble counter,
turns on the faucet and runs her hands under the stream,
her rings glinting in the sunlight.
" A good day's work" she says to her husband.
He struggles to remember the curve
where flower meets
curve of inner thigh.
He says nothing,
but silently roots for the weeds.
Quincy Ma,
June 19, 2012
