The curser blinks to the
beat of a silent metronome
(I’d say about an adagio).
I squirm about in my chair to find a comfortable
position,
can’t.
I stare out the window to coat-hanger trees
and splotches of a vivid yellow -
nothing strikes my fancy.
A look around the room:
institutional white walls,
and hideous gray linoleum tiles
(Honestly, what were they thinking?)
It finally occurs to me that
there is only one thing on my mind,
but I don’t dare write that down
or some cliché warning buzzer will go off
and we don’t want that, now, do we?
So how do I do it?
How do I write a love poem to you,
without being like the rest?
I guess what I’m trying to say,
is that I love it when you tell me to
put my feet up when we pass over train tracks
because it is good luck
or when you drive with your cell phone in hand,
and play with the antenna,
or when you toss your head
as you look over your shoulder at me
with anticipating eyes,
and your hair frames your face,
like an actress’s headshot,
but what I love most,
is the phone call I get at 11:47 p.m.,
and before you hang up, you tell me that
you can’t go to sleep
until you say good night