Sometimes I stand at the kitchen window
watch my neighbor pulling weeds in his yard
and say how are you how are you.
Sometimes I stand at my kitchen window
and wave to couples walking their dogs
and wonder how they live with all that hair.
I say what kind of dog is your dog
did you hear the frogs going on all night
do you need me to take care of your mail
your trash your child your lover your hydrangea
as I scrub the kitchen off the plate
watch the red bits and dish soap
run down the drain. Sometimes
I wave and they wave and I turn away
and they keep walking down the street,
through the park, into the small Colonial
around the block. When you jumped
off the bridge I was putting away the salad
dressing, loading the dishwasher,
wiping the countertop with an old blue rag.
I wonder if you saw the reflection of the man
rushing toward you in that cold clear
rippling water. If you waved
at him and he waved right back.