I unfasten your arms like seatbelts
and climb down to the carpet
while you are still asleep.
When the sun beams spit through my bedroom window
you reach for them, flopping
over like a half-stuffed teddy bear.
The cat perched on the CD rack
will not ask any questions
pertaining to the half-empty bed.
I go sit in the kitchen alone
sipping chocolate milk, watching the color
of the room fade into morning.
When you come downstairs
we eat ice cream for breakfast.
It's not perfect, but neither
is the cat hair stuck to your shirt.
Afterwards we throw the moment in the dishwasher,
trying to ignore its cold, sweet aftertaste.
|(c) Deanna Rubin 1998||writing index|