YOUR DATE FOR THIS EVENING
Long before evening,
he imagines himself at your door,
exchanging greetings with
a brass knocker,
the number 32.
In fact,
he’s been all day
on that top step,
looking around for his hands,
discovering them
deep down in his pockets,
nervously jabbed by house keys.
Neighbors look at him suspiciously.
A cop car rolls by,
slows, almost stops
before moving on.
They’re all sure he’s a criminal.
They just can’t identify the crime.
Only you can invite him in,
set them straight.
But it’s only midday.
You don’t expect him until seven.