Thank you for letting me
rest my heavy head on the needlepoint pillow,
so I can melt into a reclining curve
of shoulders and hips,
calves and feet,
the dog’s fur and your warm breath –
while daydreaming that
a tractor beam is surgically removing
every periodontist and talk radio host
from the entire country,
this very second.
If we spend just ten more minutes
sprawled across this old couch,
it will seem like they never existed.
And then,
when I am finally forced to walk out the front door,
I will cross our threshold with my arms stretched wide open,
my chest thrusted forward.
Carpe Diem.
On second thought, just smell the air.
Soon we’ll taste the chocolate
slowly simmering on the stove.
You sweetened its acid with sugar,
and tempered its bile with cream.
Tomorrow, you might relegate me
to the back corner of the laundry room linen closet,
where I would smile at the house spiders,
and cheerfully pet the dust bunnies.
I would not mind that at all.
Even the godforsaken niches
tucked into this home
remind me of you.
© 2020 B.L. Woll