In silhouette, in pantomime, in slow motion,
she's dropping him off, but instead of
a see-you-later kiss, they slap palms, high fives,
except they miss--
twice the sound of one hand clapping--
and there they go again: arms raised, hands poised,
holding then un-holding their applause
as they deliver unto one another. Meanwhile,
that's my space they linger over.
A kiss is just a kiss, but this
is a circuit to complete, an orbit to repeat,
a moment that needs time
the way a couplet needs to rhyme.
Parting is to parking as sweet sorrow is to sour,
and more so--trust me--if they're here tomorrow.
About the poet:
Daniel Becker practices and teaches internal medicine at the University of Virginia School of Medicine where, he says, "I am one of the few faculty who can't complain about parking. I have a primo space."
About the poem:
"I have a soft spot for wives dropping husbands off, husbands dropping wives off and partners dropping partners off, and for that moment of separation, so ripe with promise."
Judy Schaefer and Johanna Shapiro