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,
I:
foolish, hopeful, ever-fallible, present him with a love
poem.
Posts
awesome and perfect.
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