Almost hot coffee, an amber dog, a blue ballpoint, a drugstore notebook, this chilly porch.
Saturday morning, early, with rain.
I move the pen and poems appear.
Words of love for a Iover I do not have
The words tumble and make my lips bend at edges where mirth + years will someday = wrinkles.
One day, she will be in my bed, warm tangled limbs on pale blue sheets,
while I sit here with this small dog
and write of her.