Today I glimpse them
through the cloudy paned
half-glass of the kitchen door
as I leave diapers and wipes
on the back porch

the first time I’ve seen them
in over a month after having
care of the Little Guy two days
each week, my arms still
aching with emptiness

She’s on a conference call
and has to rush back to keep
the job they need since the
Tea Shoppe has been shuttered
for weeks as non-essential

I revisit the snap-shot fragment
of the Little Guy’s giggling smile
as I recited the first line from
his favorite Peek-a-Boo book

Fix tightly my wide smile before
I dash to the car drive three counties
toward home, isolation become space
inside the Chevy so cloying I keep cracking
the window just to feel the rain