Song Of Almost Nothing

That’s Violet, our Siamese, one of our feline wards and a warden of home.

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Sometimes all that matters
is your voice on the phone telling me

what a bad headache you have, asking me
to skip the gym and come home instead,

would I please? And sometimes
I drive there thinking there’s no other

shore than to or from home,
the light of sunrise and sunset

angling only in two directions
through the old rose window

in this roofless chapel of a heart:
Sometimes all that matters

is getting home first to open windows
& feed the cats, set a soup to warming

on the stove & let late-afternoon
breezes willow through the opened house,

 “King of Queens” on TV, voices
outside the window in passing

or from nearby yards like ghosts
of the peripheral, boating souls

on a surface I’m not meant to reach:
Sometimes all that matters is seeing you

pull into our driveway  knowing
everything is ready, that all you have to do

is park your purse, change into pajamas,
take your PM sinus pills and sit down

to end your pained day with me
eating soup and crackers and watching

sitcoms we’ve seen at least three times before:
Sometimes that insignificant moment

of a marriage is exactly what I  was born for
and enough for me to die a happy man right then,

home at last and finding all the comfort
left in the world in this real woman,

even though we’re just nodding off
in the crepuscular fade to night,

safe for this small and fleeting while
as sleep coffins this hard day from sight.

 “Let’s go to bed,” you say, and as
you trudge upstairs I turn off the TV

and lights and make sure all doors are locked,
give the cats a last treat, give thanks

on my knees for the little that is all
and climb the stairs to our bed

where you’re already asleep
but turn on your side anyway

to let me stroke your feet
slow and soft, our candle in darkness,

flickering inside our goodnight kiss.

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February 2012

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Submitted to d’Verse Poets’ Open Link Night #31.