is where I have studied
her secret language,
observing her behavior
like a male Jane Goodall
in a jungle of lips and thighs.
I have learned
what it really means when
she reaches across the table
for my hand, when she
draws invisible pictures
with her finger, or when
she looks away while
drinking water.
Currently, all research
is concentrated on her late-night
diner rituals: building a shrine
out of coffee-creamers or
spinning the ash tray in circles,
stirring coffee for three
unbroken minutes.
And her car keys – how
so much depends
if she puts them in her pocket.
And it can mean many things
when she says I’m not hungry
or this egg isn’t cooked; but
tonight I have discovered
it can only mean one thing
when she looks at the bill
and reaches into
what is called a purse,
says I’m paying for my own.
This means something
not expressible in the tongue of men
but instead maybe by the table
we leave behind: coffee stains
marking time like the rings of trees,
an ash tray heaped like Pompeii,
one clean knife and a five dollar bill,
an unfinished crossword,
done in ink, forever waiting
on those final answers to come
like the voice of God: Rosebud,
corpus, a six-letter word
for First apple-picker.