Morning smells of everything we thought
to ask for. We turn over and breathe it
each away from the other in the smallest
tactful winds. The sun has beaten us up
again, but it’s Sunday and we know nothing
demands us except the newspaper hefted
up to the stoop. I empty what night left
me while you remember your dreams leaning
against the doorway. We both know our days
are expected electric Christmas toys without
batteries and all the stores are closed.
But I flatten breakfast in the skillet as you pay
the electric bill and, after coffee, we bow
devoutly to a breathless love we never supposed.
© joesmith (a.k.a. Nihil De Nada), Gist Pith Ventilations, 2001