It’s 4:37 in the morning and I am almost all here.
Listening for the heavy sound of the fan kicking on,
muffling the thuds of the delivery truck unloading fruit,
the rumbling, irregular traffic on Mill Road,
the inexplicable banging in the hallway which will
probably wake the dog and start him whining again,
I brace for your first touch. Always coming these days
just before daylight, always alighting on one of three places.
Staring at the circular stain on the ceiling, I see the inevitability
of your progress like I sense the sound of my own voice
from inside my head. Very soon, your arms will frame my
arms, my legs will gird your legs, and I will hear again
the words you also said to her. Wanting to tell you only things
that are true, I’ll swallow my words as they come to me.