Ah, but a good wife!
To lie late in a warm bed
(warm where she was) with your life
suspended like a music in the head,
hearing her foot in the house, her broom
on the pine floor of the down-stairs room,
hearing the window toward the sun go up,
the tap turned on, the tap turned off,
the saucer clatter to the coffee cup . . .
To lie late in the odor of coffee
thinking of nothing at all, listening . . .
and she moves here, she moves there,
and your mouth hurts still where last she kissed you:
you think how she looked as she left, the bare
thigh, and went to her adorning . . .
You lie there listening and she moves –––
prepares her house to hold another morning,
prepares another day to hold her loves . . .
You lie there
thinking of nothing
watching the sky . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment