She in Bed and He in Morning
When she dozes off,
and he slips from the
bed to meet his friend
for pumpkin bread and coffee--
How wind seems rude as a faucet,
how all cotton sleeves drowse
away in flecks, dandelion clocks.
How strangers on bicycles
tuck or wag their miles of tongue
and shriek a bunch of oily hair.
How all tastes of burnt coconut.
How the drive melts water.
And when his friend waves and
laughs, it ricochets through his teeth
like a tennis ball in a museum
under night watch, every boing
the freeze tag of brutal light.
They gab for some odd hours.
Then he calls his kitchen phone
to see if she is up--to hope
that the call will not wake her.