ode to his sick day

April 07, 2009 Candace Morris 1 Comments

it is late here.

i sip a shot
hear the footsteps above in movement dulled.
crave pleated skirts in floral pattern {i always was diseased with desire}.
i peak through the cracks of his sweet, simple slumber.
damned cookies, remember my password!
i have a new tube of paint and one toenail unpolished.
i ate dinner on the roof with barolo and salad.

again i say, it's late.
much too late to tell.

will she scribble a letter or bake an apple pie?
will she, in curiosity, climb onto the table?
what if she cannot recover from the loss of her glove?
will she rub his head when he drinks too much?
will she "stoop to conquer" or will she "walk in beauty like the night"?

she. he. they. take long naps and eat phad thai at three.

to plan an easter menu,
to register for a french class,
to arrange a birthday brunch,
to finish her book and begin another,
to tempt her pocketbook,
to play literature trivia,
to fuss with web pages,
to blow out the candle,
to spell check,
to make a midnight quesadilla,
to bathe in steam and wine.

to live too late.
to press play.


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