Poetry by Cheryl Chaffin

Your Car in the Driveway

When I turn the corner
I see your car in the driveway
and almost forget you don't
live with us.
When I drive your car
I pretend for a moment
that we live together
that I'm going home
to you.
Inside I look for signs ‹
loose change filling the cup holders
24 Hour Fitness card
two soccer balls in the trunk ‹
not enough to reveal anything
new since we split.
We're going to rides in papa's car,
I tell our son.
He knows it, sits easily
in the car seat
looks out the window,
strawberry fields passing by.
Here we are, driving,
we who could have been
your family.
All week, that bright Honda
in the driveway, I feel you,
a cherry-red longing.

They have split up Ð
too hard to love and parent Ð
but this morning they are in bed,
baby between them.
Last night they made love,
house empty quiet,
close all night,
red sheets enveloping.

Whatever happens, he said,
we have the bond of
our child.

He had asked her for months,
but she had been afraid.
Yesterday she gave him a haircut,
wet hair black between
her fingers.
They both liked how it looked.
Clippings spiralled
on kitchen floor.
Old sheared away for new,
which grows relentlessly
again.

Cheryl's links:

Poesy http://www.poesy.org
Literary Mama http://www.literarymama.com
You can write her at chaffinwriter@earthlink.net.