Saturday morning sings an unfamiliar song
as I lie in the depression your body creates
in bed. I spread the blinds enough for my eyes
to crawl out on their hands and knees.
Light pokes its head through the backyard's elm,
and a cardinal adds "the sun, the sun, the sun,"
to the harmony--its pitch rising in question,
wondering why I'm still lying here.
Sight gives meaning to the song's parts:
the barking-dog solo, the distant train rumble,
and the crescendoing squeak of brakes
as a boy chases his ball into the street.
I want to join in the melody, push your daughter
on a creaky swing, ponder the gravel-toothed hole
that opened, overnight, next to your shed,
then stomp the dirt and rock back down,
back down again. Your sleep arms wrap
themselves around my impatience, and I don't
want to disturb you, so I listen to the instrument
in your chest. Its rhythms warn of rain.
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