Hidden away in the music

    you found my hand. I might have been

    the prettiest there in a dress I‘d sewed.

    I felt sure of you， further complimented

    by the zucca and rice you‘d cooked for supper.

    So many times I found myself counting on you

    to catch the forgotten milk on the stove，

    to balance the books my arithmetic failed.

    At intermission you reached the lobby

    ahead of me， where you spotted

    a young girl you hardly knew.

    Pretty enough to caress her cheek

    with your hand. "It‘s just my way，"

    you said， when I wondered out loud，

    with a self ripped out， hideous， inert，

    even knowing a week ago

    I touched the cheek of another

    with the same careless affection.