Sarah, waiting

by Thomas Feeny

Sarah, waiting

On sultry nights, Sarah
knows no sleep, edgy with summer,
the wet–mouthed kiss. It’s then
hands become shields against bats,
hovering close on leather wings,
shadowing sly passages,
drawing forth the same soft prayer.

Day comes, she leaps from her bed.
In pink slippers, runs to grease up
the frying pan, toss out the cat.
With dippy smile fervently she caresses
the flat iron, wet finger tickling heat,
before pressing a rib–cage of roses
into the man’s waiting shirtfront.
And though blinded by linen’s
white dazzle, deafened
by blood’s quick surge,
not a single button does she crack.

Noontime, Sarah nibbles her egg
as she goes from room to room
pursuing with glinty eye
the vaguest threat of dust.
Elbows, fingernails, into
each yellow corner she pokes
— such rub–a–dub–dub–
scraping away grime, uncovering crimes past.

Until, at last, slowing
into long day’s end,
she lays down her rag,
sighs softly,
and before panes aglow
with evening promise (ever promise)
smiles up into her beloved’s absent face.