The Transfer

His car rolls up to the curb, you switch your mood, which doll to bring and rush out again on the sliding steps of your shoes half-on, forgetting to zip your new pink coat in thirty degrees, teeth and hair not brushed, already passing the birch, mid-way between us, too far to hear my fading voice calling my rope of reminders as I lean out in my robe, another Saturday morning you’re pulled toward his smile, his gifts, sweeping on two flattened rafts from mine to his, your fleeting wave down the rapids of the drive.