She had lost her husband.

Shot and killed, the streets of
L.A. between the trash and spray.

She had gained a friend, I checked on
her every day, whenever I shopped,
and my legs brought me by her place.

I gave her flowers.  A card.  Brought a
plant for her mother-in-law, the victim’s
mother, who lived above her.

She was in her thirties, me in my
forties, me not looking for love—I had
just given up extra-marital sex of any
kind!

But heat started to play.  Her vulnerability,
my eagerness to comfort her, her fake
blonde mane—soft to my hard in L.A.
between the trash and the spray.

I told her she was attractive many times,
kissed her hair.

I hugged and she hugged back.  We held
a moment, parted but marks were left
behind like what waves do to shores,
there was a mounting vibe.

Physicality supplied.  I’d cover up if I
was modest.  I have in an honest, funny
mood brought attention to arousal, but
this time prayed about it, decided to
ignore.

She smiled at me, took off the towel
guarding her wet hair, recently showered.

She faced me, and I her.  And there was
no pretense minus need.  We were in love
without the words, but to be sure I told
her “I love you”—

as I kissed her hair again in dusty L.A.
between the trash and the spray!

It all left a tear drop she could not ignore
like my enlargement, so to be sure
not to burst and show, she took her shirt,

tucked it down to wipe the tear.

Sexuality and mourning do not fully
belong together, and so we are patient
for the year to help us transition, get jobs
and financial security, an engagement ring

and a place to propose.

But the feelings are there to start, me almost
regretting I didn’t ask her for her shirt, but
smiling ideas days later are the futile fuel
of lacking frowns, I am glad for what we had

and have, am sorry for her loss.

Excited for our potential gain, with who
knows, perhaps another year of honest
rain, rainbows, truth and innocent touches
leading to spiritual growth and pleasure
tears.

Children, all of us, reeling in the years…