The First Time Iii Poem by Morgan Michaels

'Whose fault was this, anyway'?
'Nobody's', I assured him. 'Melpomene's'.
'Whose'?
'Melpomene's'.
'Oh, he slowly replied, content he'd had nothing to do with it.
Again, he nodded 'Oh', exhaling in relief,
as the shrubs in their beds relaxed their vigilance
and became inanimate objects, again-'oh'.
'Are you sure'?

Then we heard the gliss of a car pulling up
and the sound of tires crunching the gravel
in the driveway outside, and the car door open and shut
and the heavy footfall of my mother's high heels on the asphalt
returning from church, for it was Sunday, AM, late.
The sun hid itself behind a cloud.
Around it sang some angels.
The gate opened, the subject changed and we
by dint of secret understanding
began to talk about his boyhood in Boston
in such a difficult neighborhood.