Cooking late at night for guests that don’t have mouths

and the guilt of not writing for two days.
But this drawing of him on the wrong side
of an envelope, I reflexively grin at it.
A wide open door spits chills on my toes,
a rebuttal of socks i stretch them
far as i can without the joints locking.
It is Sunday, a sense of done things
and begin agains. A nag in the back of my
eyelids to remember to put the bin out.
I have spent the day ticking off a list,
legs aching and mind full of leisure time,
or the concept of. What more could one
want for, but a second piece of you
that moves at night, pulls you tight.
And a daughter reminding you
how much you are.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s