this damp and glossy Friday night,
and last month’s blizzard walls in
all we try to see beyond.
The maroon body of her vehicle
parked in Target’s fire lane. Head cranked
to the right, trained on the automatic
doors, her hair’s like all the caricatures,
and her glasses every fear. The mouth
absently open, a screen door
to the night lawn, post-party.
There is a child in Marla’s belly,
kid books and dog treats in my bag,
and an eclipse in tomorrow’s
forecast. It must be her son she’s
waiting on. It must be her son.
