of the yellow antique phone,
vibrating on my night stand
as if to announce the sunrise.
We bought it at the same
table where you
bought the ring that
encircles my thumb.
You didn't knock before entering,
but I was not bothered;
you fill my nights anyway.
You open the door,
shut the door, then
open it again.
A red mug of coffee
appeared by at my side,
steam rising slowly with
the Sunday morning drowsiness.
You sat next to me for a while,
leg pressing against my thigh,
blankets trapping me.
We went to breakfast,
after I pulled myself from bed,
and we sat in the restaurant
wondering where the rest
of the world was.
The comics in the newspaper
were not funny, as usual,
incurring a laughter that
grew in my throat and
erupted, anyway.
Dry humor is always hilarious.
Out the window,
it lightly began to snow
and I sighed at the prospect
of doing anything that day.
