"Slip” by Amorak Huey
The way a stranger slips
up to your eight-month-old
in the instant you leave her
to carry the clothes to the car,
knowing you have left
that instant unguarded
but for Christ's sake
you can barely carry the hamper.
The way you slip a love letter
from a woman in another state
between the pages of your book
when your wife walks in.
The way a cartoon oaf slips on a banana peel.
The way time slips away
in the morning and suddenly
you're late and sorry but sorry
doesn't make you on time.
The way you almost call the wrong name.
The way the sun slips and drips
in the afternoon window and lulls
you to sleep. The way her voice,
her eyes, her face, her flesh
slip around you like a net,
draw you in until you forget
who you are.