If you stand

just a bit off center,

you look like a clock always a minute off.

There’s a picture,

it’s drawn in greys with

dots and thin line work.

Five jackets in the cold of the season

stand, only their backs visible.

The one in the jacket with dots crowded at the shoulders

told the one with shagged hair,

thwe should go to the new ice cream shop nearby.

You won’t believe it,

 the shop changed owners,

 now the specialty flavor is honey walnut and

we should go because I know, I know,

your favorite flavor is honey walnut.

 There’s only one other shop that serves it,

 a 45 minute drive away,

 but whenever we get the chance

 to drive to the shop,

 you pretend to look at all the flavors

 yet not once have you tried

the triple whipped chocolate with cookie crumbs.

Your order is a routine that can’t,

 for the life of all 31 flavors at Baskin Robins,

 can’t, be changed,

You need the stability in not having to really think, after all,

 you count the stairs on the way up to your front door.

 I count the dents on your front door.

After it closes, I can stand there staring at them.

I trace those dents in my fingers, even in the dark.

The lens of my eyes know the drape of your light-wheat curtains

but I don’t know if those curtains are made of polyester or linen.

I’ve never felt what’s behind those dents,

is your door smooth on the other side,

could I run my fingers over the surface,

 never getting my skin caught beneath an indent?

I once pressed my back against the door,

its wood frigid against the thin weave of my jacket,

maybe it’s just what comes with the changing season.

I could buy you the stars

but you don’t even know where the sun rises every morning.

We exchange pleasantries like playing cards,

you don’t know my address without guidance.