Daniel Becker
In silhouette, in pantomime, in slow motion,
she’s dropping him off, but instead of
a see-you-later kiss, they slap palms, high fives,
except they miss–
twice the sound of one hand clapping–
and there they go again: arms raised, hands poised,
holding then un-holding their applause
as they deliver unto one another. Meanwhile,
that’s my space they linger over.
A kiss is just a kiss, but this
is a circuit to complete, an orbit to repeat,
a moment that needs time
the way a couplet needs to rhyme.
Parting is to parking as sweet sorrow is to sour,
and more so–trust me–if they’re here tomorrow.
About the poet:
Daniel Becker practices and teaches internal medicine at the University of Virginia School of Medicine where, he says, “I am one of the few faculty who can’t complain about parking. I have a primo space.”
About the poem:
“I have a soft spot for wives dropping husbands off, husbands dropping wives off and partners dropping partners off, and for that moment of separation, so ripe with promise.”
Poetry editors:
Judy Schaefer and Johanna Shapiro
