A Conversation

You moved to a brick
house small enough to keep

everything confined. Planted vines.
Ivy entwined with wrought

iron, wore dresses, wrote
cards. I can hear the records

that eased the quiet Sunday,
smell tea and the washing machine.

The blind neighbor placed a fish
bucket beside your red wood door,

a spot for pots he said, some color.

And “I think you need me.” I say,
and I wonder how it might go,

words like rolled up notes, or chords
unplucked—come in? Leave?

That what this silence means. I want
to clear the air, I want to be part

of the noise in your house. Shall
I ring? Or should I show up

hands in my coat, hair uncombed by
miles and miles of turning ocean.

“No!” you say? I did not ask.