Routine

At one, I’ve just finished lunch.

The dishes lie in the sink.

It’s Friday; you should be home

for dinner.

I look to the door.

At two, I am putting away our laundry.

You like it color-coordinated,

and pre-scented with your cologne.

I think of our honeymoon in Paris.

I look to the door.

At three, my grandfather’s clock chimes

an old oriental tune. I smile at

our memories together since high school.

We should visit the mainland again soon.

I look to the door.

At four, I am looking through the recipes.

I wonder what I should cook

for you tonight. It’s a special night

just for you and me.

I look to the door.

At five, I shower and dress.

My hair must be done. I glance at the clock.

My neck exposed, anticipating
your lips across my skin.

I look to the door.

At six, I place the wine glasses.

My hands shake as I light the candle.

The bok choy is next to your favorite chicken

And the rice is steaming. The vapors tickle my nose.

I look to the door.

It’s seven; I sit at the table alone.

You should have been home three years ago.

I look

at the door.

I look.