Stacy Russo

In this one poem

you ride a red bike

to my home

on a Sunday morning

with a trail of sky blue balloons

floating softly behind you.

When I open the door,

a Bob Dylan song

comes on my radio.

“This is just like you,” I say,

“to show up unannounced

with balloons

when a Bob Dylan song

comes on my radio.

You need to stop.”

In another poem

I hear your voice

from the open window

of my favorite

Berkeley hotel room,

so I walk down two flights of stairs,

through the lobby,

out onto the sidewalk,

where I see a light rain has started,

and there at a table,

no doubt the best table,

at the cafe next door,

beneath a lush canopy,

you are holding your coffee

in your marvelous hands.

“This is just like you,” I say,

“to show up

in the middle of the day

while I’m 500 miles away

on vacation.”

And then there’s the poem

of us driving in Montana.

“Let’s try to make it

the whole way back,

drive straight through,

so we can get there soon,”

you tell me.

“Where?” I ask.

“Home,” you say,

“to California.”

I look out the window and think,

“This is just like you

to appear out of thin air

and offer me something

so gorgeous and irresistible

and full of wonder

as a long drive home.”

All of this happens

because I still love you.