The Deck

She hands me coffee
On a redwood deck we sit
Close knee to knee not knowing
If little splinters will nip at
Those tender spots between our toes.

We huddle on those chairs
Searching for words that
Have defined out marriage.
Words that give it meaning and a
message of the future.

Her blue and green plaid pants
twist like the dancing edge
of a prom dance we shared
as her ivory ankles pour into
veins dipping into her feet.

We tear blueberry bagels
with our fingertips. Peel
bagel skin off the meaty flesh
of heavy bread. We pop these
squished wads into our mouths,
and talk about our daughter as
if she has come to define us.

Her eyes look across the hard edge
of her glasses, splitting her world
in two alternatives. It’s the other
she’s imagining when squirrels chirp
from the sitting sycamore anchoring her
back to her life.

Our daughter shoves open the sliding door
and pours her small body from the house.
She pads across the porch
towards us and pushes
between our knees, presses them apart.

We life her between us and
check her feet for splinters,
our coffee forgotten.

She has several, but if you
prick out a splinter
it heals hard and rough, but it heels.
We leave her splinters
beneath her skin.

A left splinter pusses below
the skin, irritatingly exists
in her foot, but should eventually
work itself out.

Without another word, she lifts
Her and walks back into the house.

I sit with my two full coffee cups.