marigolds

her keys
were already in the driver's side door
the bridge toll in her pocket
and enough coffee
to see her through the ride home.
dinner had been eaten
dessert,
and so
it felt appropriate to leave, the right thing
for this dinner guest to do,
appropriate.
appropriate.

except for this.

love
had taken her there
to a small town requiring a drive over bridges
to a gravel side street
to a marshy boardwalk
to a cottage.
love had taken her
to a hammock swing
to an afternoon cerveza
to freshly planted marigolds.
love had take her
to a dinner invitation
to a tango over the stove
to steaming rice and a generous pat
of butter.
it had taken her
to a cobalt sky
to a swish of velvet against a wine glass
to an even sprawl of limbs
to the honest clutch
of fingers on hipbones
to a duet of laughter and wind.
it had taken her
to everything but farewell.

and isn't it strange how leaving
is the last thing a body wants
after such glorious satiety?