By Tula Holmes
When you turn to your wife and ask,
“How long has it been since I’ve seen her?”
she’ll look at her watch and answer,
“Perhaps a year, maybe two.”
Before you click the lamp off,
you’ll mention getting together
between vacations and busy schedules.
But my clock ticks slower now,
in seconds too many to count,
so I’ll pass the time wishing we lived
down the street from each other
on Perkins Road, where as a girl
I rode a blue Schwinn, popped pink bubble gum,
and dreamt of Little Joe on Sunday nights.