Creeping In

By Lucinda Sands

Open your back door just enough
to beckon late summer in
and some other something
may steal your inattention
creep into your heaving
your hope-filled chest
slither into your void extraordinaire
trespass on your upturned palms
your meditative pose.

Are you ready
for his tiptoe dance
through gleaming-like-pearls
chunks of egg shell
and bits of rainbow confetti
embedded in the Persian rug
you preened for far too many years?
Will he be stunned to find
what you never knew was there?
Surprised when he flips you upside down
pulls your pockets inside out
then disappointed beyond repair
to find nothing on empty?

And when he leaves before sunup
will he be willing to drop
a quarter of himself
(give or take a dime)
into the spare change jar
you hide behind the violet velvet sofa
with brilliant silk pillows
tossed on a bare floor
each time you prove your passion.