The Red Jag

The loneliest sound I know
comes before dawn on a Sunday morning:
Your engine
strikes up the band
in the garage below me
and fades away to a dull ache
The neighbors are relieved
when you go
and drift back into sleep
pacifying themselves with
low curses
In a minute
I'll go downstairs
babe in arms
and look around
I'll put the kettle on
and make breakfast
for your tall son
and look around
Then
tea and baby
I'll sit on the couch
before a table
littered with catalogs:
clothing, garden supplies, toys
I'll pick one up
then throw it down
Unable to remember
what I'm looking for.