I’ve learned to look down at your first front step
so I don’t see you – already stunning –
waiting at the window to surprise me
with an open door and long list of chores.
Before I can take off my boots, you say,
“The lightbulbs need changing, yes. But first could

you take out the trash?” I kiss your cheek. Grab
the bags, small plastic bundles of your life,
and make my way down the walk to the back.
Near the alley, I see scallions still grow
wild along the neighbor’s fence. I drop the bags.
Like you taught, I snap a stalk to chew on.

I’m unconcerned with whether you’ve forgotten,
again, to unlock the back door. I worry
instead about your knees. If you can safely
descend the stairs, if you ever come out back.
I should visit more. Make more time for this, more
time to be grateful that there is still time.

I don’t want to stop thinking of you so
I watch the birds sing or flirt as the sun
reveals the whole greening yard. It warms up,
a bit. The lightbulbs call but I stand here
with the trash, the onion, the faintest smell
of your perfume still resting on my cheek.

Michael VanCalbergh currently lives in Normal, IL. His work has appeared in Best New Poets 2021, Spoon River Poetry Review, Cherry Tree, Cobra Milk, and many other spaces.