It's not a holiday weekend here, like at the Dairy Queen.
I'm not having a girls' night with
my friends while we wait for the
men, doing their duty as always. We
let them go in the Spirit of the weekend.
I didn't iron your dress-shirt for you before you left
because you didn't wear one.
I didn't watch you shave in the mirror
to give yourself that all-important clean-cut
look after a lazy day.
Nor did I smile to myself at the pride
left in the scent of your shaving lotion.
You didn't leave with your grandfather and brothers
but went out with different boys to "live it up"
instead of sitting still...still...still.
I didn't sigh to myself that yes, here was Heaven
a little sooner, watching you
walk down the path and look back.
I'll never see you at the Dairy Queen on a Saturday night,
just like the others in your white shirt and suit--
tie and tacks and pinstripes and expressions the only
outward feature that distinguishes you
from the other like-purposed men.
