That mint

We scraped my chairs across the floor,
and taped notes to the windows, open.
A decent day at last.

I plugged the griddle, poured the batter,
so you could watch my tadpole swim
the kitchen, magnified.

Carrying a Cuban mint,
a purple-stemmed, hopeful thing,
I followed from the bedroom to the porch and back,
wondering if that man loves you. With you.

We reached a time of affairs somehow,
and yesterday my fingers never smelled like onions.
We both smoke, but I carry mint.