you should have been here by now.

for six months i have been staring out this window
at the naked trees, watching the snow
fall and melt and waiting
to share spring with you

i was going to buy $100 worth of
asparagus and tomatoes and
sweet potatoes and bratwursts
and salmon and pineapple.
then grill it all in a cloud of smoke
shirtless, probably. barefoot, certainly.

the kids were going to run in and out of the house
breaking all the rules, most likely
“no shoes in the house! don’t leave the doors open!”
bedtime would certainly go all to hell as the sun
stayed with us well into the evening, after all this dark
and i wasn’t going to care because spring.

you were going to sit on the porch and laugh at toby,
laugh at my ridiculous music (wub wub wub)
laugh for the sheer joy and relief of green after
half a year of winter.

we were going to linger for hours, make a pot of coffee,
wash it down with a shot of whiskey, talk shit about god,
until we are tired and full and half-buzzy
and then grumble as we gather the condiment bottles
and scattered empty cans to take inside.

we were going to.

but it’s so goddamn green outside my window right now and
you should have been here by now and
you are not and

i miss you.