My good friend stood in the front hall
in hat, coat, snow boots explaining
the map of his basement and what to do if—
when they arrived through the back door
giggling and laden with grocery bags.

The line of his lips twisted ever so—
the pace of his explanation heightened—
his glance met hers—
the bags in her arms stopped—
he stopped, went.

She unpacked three loaves of bread
the coriander, tomatoes, celery,
four cans of assorted vegetables,
spinach, soy beverage, the prepared
chicken broth, chick peas, olive oil,
pasta, as my son shelved them.

My friend’s son stands
a little translucent,
a little above the snow
sees his father leave
sees his ex-friend
and his ex-life unpack groceries
before he turns away and attends to
his bruised and punctured little vein.