grains in basket

you loved a poet once
your tongue is muscle
you tell me these things

as we move without worry
of oil based paints
and products
washing clean under water

selecting fabric and color
like breakfast at a diner
syrup sticky menu
finger touches choice
forest green, animal prints,
blue ink, tiny stitching

I follow close behind
like Ruth
or Naomi?
picking up your scattered grains
hungry for the spill

knowing now I did not marry the wrong man
if I'd have married the right one
I would never have met you

is there anything else to say?