A Quiet Weekend in the ’Hood
You phone me Friday
and ask if I’d like
to get together.
As fine as Thursday was,
I cannot do it.
It has been only eight weeks
since my girlfriend
went down the road,
I’m leery of so soon
an involvement
and try to structure
things accordingly.
Or maybe I pass
because I’m burned out
but not aware of it.
Perhaps I can’t handle
a second night of ecstasy
and must beg off,
if only to sip beer
at my neighbourhood local.
I’m exhausted, I say,
why don’t you come over
tomorrow. I hear
sadness and disappointment
in your voice,
and you thrill me
so I don’t want to lose you,
but you say okay.
I walk to Secrets
on Pine west of the Main,
sit at the bar
and nurse a pint,
staring moodily
into space
lest you abscond
with my freedom.
All well and good,
but next morning I make
egg salad and salmon salad
and God knows what other
Good Housekeeping classics,
and you arrive
looking scrumptious
in a little black dress.
We do very well
for two strangers
and fall asleep
in each other’s arms.
When we get up Sunday,
I need room to stretch
but you’re happy to spend
another day with me.
I put together breakfast
and then we chat,
you on the couch,
me squatting on the floor.
You’re shy for such a beauty
but comfortable with silence
whereas I am restless
and always on the go.
When we run out of chatter,
the silences grow longer
and I’m so pent up
I’m tempted to usher you out
but mull the consequences
of brushing off a looker,
and instead I study you
in your high-cut dress
and newfound joy.
I suggest we return
to the bedroom.
You lie down,
I loosen your frock,
marvelling at your body,
and decide I won’t be going
anywhere for a while.
— Quinn McIlhone
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