Perkins Road

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.