POEM AT 25

 

In different combinations of thermos
and athletic wear, lately every woman
looks like my mother. I’m at the dog park

when she calls. Would it be the worst thing?
A little you. I could learn to be gentle,
to French braid without missing pieces.

It’s not the conversation I expected, like waking
from a road trip only two miles from home.
Sometimes I need the anonymity

of an antecedent. Each time I walk away
from the refilling Brita, I return
to a metaphor I haven’t earned.

A woman presses the button for the doggy
water fountain and asks, which one’s yours?
Hers, a sleepy beagle named Missy.

Shouldn’t it be obvious?
In parking lots I still find myself
reaching for the passenger door.