Monday, September 19, 2011

Oh you, who makes all this possible…

My husband takes my breakfast order via text
as I’m coming home from an early morning run,
42 degrees,
for which earlier he’d acted as my arm-oire,
 standing in the closet with bra top,
fleecy tights,
wool shirt
arrayed on his limbs while I tried to decide
what the season’s first cool run required. 

At home, he slips my coffee onto the bathroom counter
while I’m showering, ensuring I stay as
 hot in the steam as the coffee does in the cup.

I hope, absurdly, to be at least 1/2 as good at loving as he is. 
(What would that look like:
one slipper delivered from under the bed?
a dinner partially cooked and missing all seasoning? 
a ride halfway to work?) 

Maybe this:
on a day that he returns home to
a French press clogged with grounds,
a dog dissatisfied and unwalked,
no inspiration spared for dinner,
foolish, hopeful, ever-fallible, present him with a love poem.

1 comment: