He was a voice in the background
urging the Nets to smear the Knicks.
She was a shadow making rounds
from kitchen to livingroom to deck.
He was the man she barely remembered
marrying with quaking knees.
She was the girl he wracked his brain
to remember the night he found.
The voice always had to be there.
The shadow was needed, okay?
Yet suddenly, each was a fixture
with an iron-clad guarantee.
Always so much needs doing
between work and a buzzing alarm.
Phones ring, furnaces conk.
Person has to make a living.
Person has accounts, person has kin.
Always civic duties to factor in.
Laundry won't wash and dry itself
What is a person going to do?
If only she had followed the voice.
If only he had talked to the shadow.
(c) Phyllis Jean Green, October, 2003