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.