Hidden away in the music
you found my hand. I might have been
the prettiest there in a dress I‘d sewed.
I felt sure of you， further complimented
by the zucca and rice you‘d cooked for supper.
So many times I found myself counting on you
to catch the forgotten milk on the stove，
to balance the books my arithmetic failed.
At intermission you reached the lobby
ahead of me， where you spotted
a young girl you hardly knew.
Pretty enough to caress her cheek
with your hand. "It‘s just my way，"
you said， when I wondered out loud，
with a self ripped out， hideous， inert，
even knowing a week ago
I touched the cheek of another
with the same careless affection.