From the start of yesterday
words were coming to the surface
there for a second, but then soon gone.
The Utopiangirl had reappeared,
and with little or no real notice
she was tucked up in her usual position.
Her pristine favorite place,
and even though she hates that word
there’s something about her pain
that far outweighs my brokenness.
So she’s here on the eve my surgery
by luck or chance, she stands straight up
waiting to take her place again.
Dutifully the next morning,
she’s there making sure things went ok.
She asks without ever truly asking
if I’d take her hand and dance again.
Not sure for how long or to what song
her thoughts take her all over the place
even though she’s equally matched
it’s time we leap.
She likes the chance of being noticed.
A true Utopiangirl, half committed
she handed over her instruction booklet,
every word clearly spelled out
like the contracts of old.
I, on the other hand, could only write
time and attention as my request.
She laughed, kissed on tiptoes
and said, and I quote, “Fine.”
First things first, we’re starting slow
she gave that wrinkled nose look,
I said, and I quote, “Sure.”