Small Rituals

Remember how, each time you made
the endless climb to the upper floor
where your masseuse has her room,

when finally you reached the topmost stair
then paused, to catch your breath,
and look back to where you knew

I waited in our car, our eyes would meet,
then hold,
while you thanked me for seeing you,

for waiting,
not leaving too soon, abandoning the watch
till I saw you had safely arrived,

not sprawled, midway up,
concussed, breathless,

bloodied forehead gashed open,
as had happened at rush hour

in Grand Central;
only then could you turn,

eyes still dancing with mine,
till you were, like the setting sun, gone?