Your hand against mine in the

The look of a child witnessing rain
is a kind of awakening. The way
his eyes go wide and get that
awe-struck reverence that’s never achieved
on Sunday mornings when the pastor preaches
Noah’s Ark and the pews are more uncomfortable
than the gynecologist’s waiting room.  

I’m reminded of our second date
(it was raining then too)—
your father’s jazz blaring in his 1950’s Corvette
as you drove us to see African Queen
at the theater in town.
When I reached for the popcorn,
you gave me your hand instead,
and even though I was no Katharine Hepburn,
you said I was pretty enough to be a star.

The next night you took me out again,
and the night after that.
We were like two children
standing in a rainstorm, rapt
in each other and in the flooded streets.
That was when hands touching
still held significance
and you were Humphrey Bogart,
sailing us away.