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It’s before I got the wandering eye.
I daydream I’ve already left:
without her each morning I’d be able to wake,
stretch in bed-warmth, blink used to light, not lie
feigning sleep in case she cradles my back,
her lap flexing for my elbow to lift
to take her arm onto my chest. I keep still
until she shadow-dresses upon the wall.
I’ve clipped my speech to book-end language:
sniffled good mornings and pecked good nights.
When she presses for merely conversation, I blink
impatient, smile with half my mouth and pledge
we can do it later. Pledges I can keep,
at least if helped by the talky ways of drink,
till her laugh seems crows to me, her voice tin,
holding my breath to let such mockeries almost slip.
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