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It wasn't love but chance and rather sweet-
your newly weaned son asleep in his crib, your breasts too tender
to be touched. And touch itself, too early, indiscreet.

Who would have believed that over a drink and something to eat
you'd lose your car, locked in overnight? Parking offender,
it wasn't love but chance and rather sweet.

So you found yourself in bed with a grown-up, a feat
of sorts. My recent loss had left me wondering when I'd mend or
want to be touched. I wanted you, however indiscreet.

Your small son breathed and coughed. I tried to sleep
but couldn't ignore what your body engendered
in mine. It wasn't love but chance and strangely sweet.

I like your name; you're used to mine, ironic repeat
of your old lover's. With so few facts ought two people surrender
to touch? (Better to date, slow down, try to be discreet.)

OK, let's walk around the pond, take a few months or weeks
to study each other and see what portends or
not. It wasn't love but chance and rather sweet.
I'm moved by you as well as touched: shy and indiscreet.

Robin Becker

Robin Becker is the author of four books of poems, the most recent of which is All-American Girl, published this year by the University of Pittsburgh Press. She is an associate professor of English at Pennsylvania State University and a 1995-96 fellow at the Bunting Institute of Radcliffe College.

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