The small window to the garden
was obscure glass -
creating distorted images of your
movements
as you stooped to work the earth.
I rapped lightly with my knuckles
and you popped up,
opened the back door to meet me
in the kitchen.
I reached to hug your dirt-covered self,
drops of perspiration on your brow.
You extended your hands like a traffic cop.
“You’ll get mud on you!”
Said I didn’t care,
wiping your smudged cheek.
“I’m going to shower,” and, with that,
you slipped away.

Alone in the kitchen, I sipped a beer
wondering what kind of evening might
unfold.
Friends, casual...