The traffic on LaSalle filters in only one direction,
exhaust rising in late February,
the sky overcast and thin.
On Sunday mornings I’ve pushed back the covers
and have rearranged each of my vital organs,
to distance myself from the day. Heart behind
the lungs, hidden within my stomach.
There’s a man who’s been carrying around my hands
as if they were his alone. Each Sunday morning
he runs them through his hair and sorts through
his closet for clothes to pull on.
He shaves with them,
dials my number with them,
drinks wine with them.
His skin is coffee and milk, heat within my hands.
There’s a man who’s been carrying around my hands
and when he picks apart each button on my shirt
I undress myself in front of him,
the curtains parted,
thin sky close to the earth,
the traffic continuing without us.
(c) 1996 Michael McAllister