only when rush-hour traffic has split the doves’
chatter to industrial screeching, and all I can
turn to is the rhythm of your heart?
I wish we could talk over scrambled eggs and
hazelnut coffee, when the road is tongue-tied,
and the grass out back is awash in orange under
the sunrise.
Just a half-hour meal would feel like days, we’d
talk about your beautiful dreams and what to do
with ourselves on hot Saturday nights when
comforters don’t.
For once the sky wouldn’t be so melancholy,
like when the clouds come low and smother
us, soaking up our aspirations for a pretty day
in pastel fog.
When it’s chilly, my pillows are cold as marble
countertops. The bedside lamp radiates a
mellow glow, but the fog chokes it out and I
move by your siren song.
Your voice is crisp and sweet. When the birds
are gone I think of how you said my surname
that first time. Oh, I don’t remember who I was
before we met.
Samuel Swauger is a poet from Baltimore, Maryland. Some of his work has appeared in Wordgathering, Third Wednesday, and Front Porch Review. His website is samuelswauger.com and his Twitter is @samuelswauger.
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