LEAVE IT TO BEAVER

She told you that you had stolen the space around her quiet so that her ears were ringing with what she didn't know.
He met you at the bar and poured a drink on your head.
All afternoon you sat in the snow and rubbed the flakes on the stubble on your legs. You were glad that you didn't wear panties. Was it a thrill or a chill? You lit a match on your legs.
Your father visited you. He came back from the dead to tell you not to get a draft. He said, "I don't want you to take sick" and disappeared back to the land of the dead.
Your dog was biting at his heels.
You hadn't met me yet. We wouldn't fall in love for another ten years. I was in my room five towns away watching, Leave It To Beaver.
Somehow that prepared me to get along with a woman. I know how to stoop, kneel and grovel. I apologize for your faults.
He asked you to dance. One day he would disappear into his mashed potatoes and I would become your first choice for confusion, your reason to tussle, your answer to different questions.

David Lawrence has published over four hundred poems. New book, "Lane Changes" is coming out in March by Four Way Books.

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