Onions, Potatoes

Only elemental seeming this moment,
I hide my ground-root person at work
talking to a coworker, realize it, ashamed
of fear drove it. Back at my desk, from your 
office a message—a flare of your being
in daylight: Get potatoes and onions
on way home. Grinning, we stir fry
them full-toot steaming after work’s
grimaces. Human shouts and car bleats
jump roof onto our small back porch, air
not sea-breeze fresh, more bat-breath
strange. Food tasty. Then walk a quieted
sidewalk with you knows me, streetlight on
pumpkin-orange dress hints your shape.
Above, your face, even gentler voice.

George Shelton

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