For My Wife Who Keeps it Simple

Sky
Sometimes you want to read just the right poem for the end of the week but you look and look and none of the poems are that poem so you realize you have to go and write your own end-of-week poem.

When I am cranky and hormonal
your vacation photos make me jealous
and then I feel like a shmuck
because I’m sitting here
in my comfortable home
while the washer and dryer spin.

When I am fried and spent
your politics make me spout off
reminding me of people I don’t like
being around who never stop talking
and make you wonder when on earth
the evening will be late enough
to make a graceful exit home.

When I am dripping wet with pond water
and the sun hasn’t yet gone down
but the day is still sticky
with the unconsummated threat of rain
and I see you on the beach
I focus on my blue towel
and rub the sand from between my toes
so as not to have to say hello.

When I admit things that make me human
that seem ugly and even despicable
and then I finally have that cry
the quaking one I waited all week for
she still loves me and I am amazed.

“Thank you for carrying me,”
she says, and I look at her
all of my disbelief melting
into the relief of the reception
so clear between us,
like a radio station
with DJs whose voices
make me want to turn it up
and drive all night,
one hand on the wheel
and the other on her thigh
till we get to some all-night dive and in this part
of the fantasy that has taken over the poem
she can order anything she wants
from that giant trifold menu.

We get margaritas and cheese fries
then lie on the warm hood of the car,
fingers interlocked and stars falling
over our heads like the rain we needed
that never came
and I forget why I was such a martyr
and I forget why I ever felt like crying
and we turn our heads
knowing it’s a movie moment
crack a smile
lips touching
and decide to stay like this — wait for it —
forever.

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