Things we Do at Thirty


While you walk through India
in tired shoes, you love so much
Lights out in the bakery
I clean the ovens
sweeping bits of yesterday
still warm, from the floors.

Using your hands you ask for
direction
to trains and the sun
works another freckle
to your face.

And as the oven comes alight
each window blushes
with an amber cataract.

Soon, you will tell me about monkeys
in the road, watching dust fall
and their fingers ready
for a handful of skirt.

Sometimes, it is best not to look
anything in the eye.

Outside, in a white shirt
I chew on something days old,
and I'm sure the clock runs slow.

I think, not about you
and brush crumbs from my beard.
While you sleep at noon,
with the rest of the bus,
scarf up over your nose,
and miss Forsythia blossom,
and fall away.


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