"Then, without lights or music,
even the ghosts of ourselves
had to break up the party."
--Billy Collins
As I lie in bed reading, you steal my right arm
and curl around it to keep me captive.
The fingers of my left hand are unable to turn the page,
and I'm stuck between stanzas, wondering what else
the presence of your body is keeping me from:
mowing the lawn's ankle-deep grass--
washing dishes from last night's tuna casserole?
or changing your daughter's urine-soaked diaper?
I put the book down, unable to read
past this moment, with you filling the nooks
of my body with yours. Then you steal the other arm,
and my ghosts continue their chores without me.
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