Monday, September 15, 2003

the alarm

A life with you would be things
I never thought I wanted
for myself and for my story

House payments and paired socks
Car ports, dinner, and Howard Stern
The cold side of the bed too early
every morning, without fail, and
then again the next morning
with no thought to goodbye kisses
or what I looked like sleeping
and snoring, drooling, and dreaming

But a life without you would
have no memory of all the
tiny wonderful parts of you
in my day and in your bed

The shape of your mouth
covering less than aristorcatic
teeth, your laugh that surprises
me with unexpectedly found humor
And the same five minutes
every night when you find me
on my side and press against
the concave of my back with
the convex of your stomach
and the shape flexes together
and apart, together and apart
until you turn away, leaving us
butt to butt waiting for the alarm.