Morning
I wake before seven,
in bed by myself,
creep down the spiral staircase,
past the prone figure on the futon,
make it out the door but he’s right behind me.
He laughs when I tell him I didn’t know it was him lying there.
We go back to bed together,
where pale light streams through the windows.
Deep voices yell back and forth, workers in the yard next door.
He teases me all morning,
“Who is that on the couch?” he’ll say.
I punch him in the arm,
lovingly.
He “steals” my nose.
After hours of kidding and cuddling,
hands stroking arms, apples of cheeks, smalls of backs,
we fall into comforting sleep a little before ten.
When we wake the sun glares,
an unnatural yellow
alerting us to afternoon.
I miss my classes
and I don’t even mind.
copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews
