For Tim

Steeped as I was in the fiction
of knights and castles and maidens
idly brushing their hair in some tower
I was unprepared
when you arrived at my door.

Where’s your armor? I said.
What, no steed?
Jeans are more my style, you said.
And you can’t beat a Chevy Nova.

Not sure how I felt
about this accidental prince
leaning on my doorbell, I invited you in.
Don’t rearrange anything, I said.
And keep your coat on.

Nice tree, you said, nodding
at the Ansel Adams. How about
some music?
Okay, I said
but I choose the album.

It’s hard to sweep a girl off her feet
when she’s wearing lead boots.
Undeterred, you didn’t mind
my cautious steps, even as you
performed your own
unconventional dance.
It’s fun, you said. Just give it a go.
I’m fine right here, I said.

It took time to make room
for you in the vigilant
house of myself.
Until one day Love laid
another cup and plate
on my precise table for one
and I knew
I was done for.

Pull up a chair,
I said.
Don’t mind if I do,
you said.

July 9, 2018 (30th)