The Transfer

His car rolls up to the curb, you switch

your mood, which doll to bring and rush

out again on the sliding steps

of your shoes half-on, forgetting to zip

your new pink coat in thirty degrees,

teeth and hair not brushed, already

passing the birch, mid-way between us,

too far to hear my fading voice

calling my rope of reminders as I

lean out in my robe, another Saturday

morning you’re pulled toward his smile, his gifts,

sweeping on two flattened rafts

from mine to his, your fleeting wave

down the rapids of the drive.