I wake to reactionary sun
Bleeding through the small pane
On which I rest jetlagged skull
He rubs the knuckle of my
Index finger with a rough thumb,
I shift my head to his shoulder
Where he exhales a reminiscent, weary sigh
In my ear
Real life drones on below like
The jet engine that propels us home
After 13 hour days, he sponges up
My broken, scattered words of frustration
Just like my tears after blizzard,
Delayed flight, cancelled connection,
Lost luggage, concrete floor, screaming baby
He masterminds my sanity at times
I rub my eyes,
Slits open enough to watch his own
Search the pages of Harry Potter.
And finally, thank god, his lips on my temple
And his thumb in my palm
Jan. 20, 2004
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