He Does Not

He does not come disguised

as Brenda Starr’s Black Orchid man,

appearing suddenly in the elevator

into which I step.

He does not come disguised

as a hard-boiled detective

standing beneath a lamp post

hand cupped around a match.

I see him rise from the edge of a golden field,

rising high and wide as a forest fire moon,

unfolding fast as a hibiscus 

in a Walt Disney nature film.

He comes like Alan Ladd standing on ten boxes, 

and I, a Dorothea Lange Depression woman,

hair pulled back, a few strands blowing loose,

I watch from the porch.