Here is a poem I found while you were sleeping;
it reminds of the particular ways
you make me love you,
and I’ll just leave it here,
in case you get a chance to read it;
here is a cup of coffee, black the way you like it,
that I will set beside you on top of the clock radio
as you page through the discography
of Frank Zappa. Here is another pillow
for propping up against; yes, I am going
to make some toast for us but first,
I can’t help mentioning
how the pheromones
draw the cats to the bed,
how they loll in the tangle of our sheets,
too blissed-out to swipe at your bare toes.
I am having aftershocks,
to interrupt you, to bite your shoulder and press
my face against your back .
You just want to read—is that asking too much on a Saturday
morning in February? When last night you met me with
pea soup and smoky scotch and led me to our couch
to tell me everything with your hands?
I will leave you alone now,
but first I need to know if you’ll want marmalade
or butter only,
and I was just thinking of bringing you this,
and a small black cat,
and just, I promise, one more kiss.
Nancy A. Henry