Analysis of Piety

I stare at the cactus in back of the
greenhouse that cowers in hiding,
forgiving the Maker for lack of companions
in voiceless devotion;
he wonders if water were always so friendly
but simply too shy to sneak under the armor
to whistle good morning. But then I am
elsewhere, and in sudden musing,
I catch myself thinking if only I'd married
that surgeon I met on the trolley in Frisco,
the tall man with stubble, I'd likely be
swimming bare-bodied at midnight, lazy,
pink petal in peach-colored porch lights.
But the water runs onto my foot from the
table and empties the pitcher;
the cactus was waiting, so patient; so often
in silence he prayed that I sometimes feel
guilty for leaving.