Let Me Do This Thing for You
My coat, flung over the puddle.
Your shoes pushing into wool instead of mud.
The letter you do not want
to destroy, but do not want to see.
Give it to me.
The airport. Your early flight.
Just remind me if what you are doing
counts as arriving or departing.
The person you must speak to,
but cannot call, you dread it so much.
The room full of people
you do not know.
I will go with you.
We will learn their names.
Tissues and tea and transparent teal gelcaps.
Wrapping the plates and glasses
in newspaper. Removing them
and assigning them to cabinets.
The thing you made.
Looking at it alone,
and then with you.