There should be a term
For that triangle of skirt
Revealed between coat openings
When you’re seated.
There should be a name
For the bird that lags behind
The rest of the flock
On cloud-filled fall days.
There should be a word
For the feeling in my stomach
As I wait on your front porch
For the door to open.
There should be something
That properly describes
The weight of your hand in mine.
