in waiting

while you answer
your wife's question
about how you want
your eggs this morning,
i'll be in my back yard,
on my knees, digging
the hard ground, planting
seeds. i need to nourish
something, and eventually
see results. when she asks
you to rub her shoulders,
her neck, her arms, her
legs, or to zip up her
dress, before you both
go out to dinner, i'll be
opening up the fridge
to find something sweet,
leftover from when you
were last here. and at
some point, i'll delete
all of your e mails, again,
and addresses, and phone
numbers where you can't
ever be reached anyway,
and i'll break those martini
glasses, stepping on the
shattered glass, and feel
the cut on the bottom
of my feet. i'll look
at that crimson bloom
of blood as a portent,
for a dark moment, and
then run, without
hesitation to the phone
when i hear it ring.