How peaceable to be awake and listening
to the slip-slip
of fabric over his skin: undershirt, buttons, jangling belt.
Six a.m. he dresses in the dark, leaving the blankets warm.
His smile a porcelain mug - thick white full of early morning coffee.
Tonight we will dance beneath that bare light bulb.
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1 comment:
Once I wrote a poem called "The Farmer's Wife." There were juniper berries and boats and dead pheasants. Your poem is much better.
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