I went to the store
to get you a card,
but love ain’t like that.
Them hearts and flowers
is all very well
for the rich folk up on the hill.
Here we do it different.
It’s more like my jeans
smellin’ fresh in the drawer
from hangin’ on the line,
or that extra half a
peanut butter sandwich
in my lunch sack.
It’s you hummin’ by the kitchen sink—
your hands rough and red—
too many dishes,
too much scrubbin’ floors.
Don’t think
I don’t notice.
This article appears in March 2014.
