1.
Morning has broken like a child
opening the bedroom door.
You wear my Red Sox sweatshirt, the one
with the ratty collar.
My pillow smells of twelve-hour love,
my face prickled against your back.
Your taste pervades me
like an unrelenting song.
Watch me float. Remember Juarez.

2.
I hear the coos of a mourning dove.
You re-enter my airspace, asking questions
that demand immediate answers.
You cross the border from Canada,
Canuck of the North, with ropes.
If God is in his heaven,
then the doves of dawn must fly again, briefly.
Why? you say –
with no particular rhyme or reason, why not?

3.
Alarm clock strikes
with absolute ferocity, snarling
me into reality, sad sadistic angel.
As in a dream we float above the arena,
rising on the thermals of love,
ascending to cruel heights. “Cool it, Dude”
are the only words I can manufacture.
Nothing good will come of this
after daybreak, Jeez.

4.
You are in the shower. Entering,
I decide to make it a two-car stall.
While rinsing, I make the biggest commitment
of my life: I will go on a diet, tomorrow.
Carpe diem, my little cabbage. The bar of soap
gurgles its sudsy song, wishing me happy trails
as I go forth, frothy,
into the world, wearing clean underwear
and a smile as big as Rhode Island.

5.
We are like two old cars with rusty
clutches, transmissions out of mesh,
or is it that we are two children
who haven’t ridden a bike in years,
who have an itch hankering to be scratched,
or is it that we need an intrigue,
an assignation, a feeling of stealing away,
and why do I find so much joy
parking my pickup truck behind your barn?