Chicago
Every morning before breakfast
you go out, still in your sky-blue
pajamas, to see what’s changed
in your garden. This time a poppy
opened overnight, not the fields-
of-Flanders color in the photos but
a deep silky crimson like the dress
I bought on our first trip to Paris—that red.
I should see if it’s stored in the attic
though I may have given it to Goodwill
since I did not foresee this poppy
and where would I ever go
in a red silk dress from Paris?
Still, it would feel good next to my skin
and I could wear it to drink wine
in the garden, you and me clinking
our best crystal while the maple
waves its banners and robins
hunt worms where you weeded
after breakfast while I was still
in my nightgown, also sky-blue
though we didn’t plan on matching
sleepwear. I was reading the Times
you gave me along with the news
of your poppy, or maybe writing a poem
so I’d have something to give you later
while we drink our glasses of wine.
