Eating leftover spaghetti
at our cluttered kitchen table
I put my hand on your knee
feeling the stitch where I sewed up
the tiny rip in your pajama pants
and ask, "Has anyone really close to you
"Me neither," I say.
We are potted plants
cultivated far from the storm;
our roots grow deep,
our stems frail.
Do you feel you've lived a sheltered life? In what way?