I retrace heavy hexagonals
Cezanne’s bright peaches for coasters
Someone’s nine am coffee ring still wet
I wonder if the woman who left it was also left, hoping
Like me, searching tirelessly,
Trying to see her husband above the waste
Did she smirk at the hodgepodge of small Asian tables
with yard sale Colonial figurines and
Dingy striped drapes of cream falling out of their cast iron pull backs
Covering windows she couldn’t see anyway around him
I wonder if she sat streaming like me,
Hearing the nervous concertos, wincing at faded beach photos and the
Reprints of pottery made by Greeks
Waiting for counseling, shifting her feet
Maybe she also had a Fine Arts degree
That gathered dust on her étagère
Maybe she also traded back bottles for bristles after the affair?
Maybe she was also to blame, screaming his name
While her husband smiled up to her from her feet?
Or, maybe she is lucky like me
Still Life with Apples and Peaches,
Four rosy faced cheeks bent on kissing their Daddy
Maybe she would also leave her dark lover behind a thousand times
Or maybe she was waiting for me….