The Man That Got Away
He limbers to strange groceries. The bags in need.
His hammer to the fix. His tow, his lift, his reach.
I stutter to the random meetings, evenings mostly,
after work after heat, when he plants.
Latin names I don't remember. A bush to lush,
the bulbs to purple, wild and flowered, bees. And he
pitched toward sun, delivers six more wrapped and tied
to me, for spring. I shy. I plant them every which
and some do overtake,
his vine to neighbor mine.
His seed in otherwise to carry,
his marry to the other seldom seen. She
with red hair tendriled in the wine
she sips. Her fat cat in the driveway.
I was convinced
but this, I all but wifed him.