dispenser in blonde

dispenser in blonde

the way you swing your car
across the drive
in a bellow of gravel,
shows you’re not staying

you chew the cuticles on one hand
as a paper prescription bag
swings in the other,
marking time

your hair is white blonde
like the winter skies of my childhood
raw and appealing;
coldest when i become absorbed

my neighbour and i are shut-ins,
different reasons
keeping us behind
curtains twitched to cracks

you are gone in minutes
the paper prescription bag
passed over to petrified hands
receiving you with a midday tremor

you don’t bring drugs to my door

yet your translucent face
catching my window light
reveals much
of the heart of you

like the winter skies of childhood