his stubborn
beard grew a little
in wintertime-
white on white,
like snow just starting
to fall on the sidewalk.
sometimes i wish we
could still dance,
or i could sit
on his big lap
when bored
at cocktail parties
in the days
of lacy socks under
patent leather
mary janes.
i still sleep in his
nighty when it's
cold out,
slip through the
silence of a
sleeping house
with faded stripes
down to my knees
to boil water
for chamomile
tea in bowl mugs
during sleepless
nights, floating
past snowed in window
sills lit up by
yellow street lamps.
sport was probably an
occasional insomniac
as well-
leaving empty, snoreless
space next to dear sally
to sit in his lean back
chair in the den,
and catch early morning
scores from the steelers
and overnight under
the table stock exchanges,
or maybe return to
his hand held yahtzee
or those trashy novels
he loved.
when i run from sleep
i sit with hands
on marble kitchen tops
and stare blankly
into my tea cup.
or lie in bed and
write down words
and call them poems
next to my humidifier,
her hum rising and falling
like a snore.
DLS
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