My Husband
He sneaks out the back door
“to check on the rabbits”
and returns to us stinking
of tobacco. He drinks coffee
after coffee until he stutters.
Before washing dishes, he pulls
on headphones – with a chewed
wire and right ear-cushion
taped on with package tape.
Like a pogo stick gone awry,
he dances to Devo: “She’s just
a girl, just a girl, a girl you want.”
He puffs out his face like a fugu,
sans needles, and asks for a kiss.
At 2 a.m. he re-configures
our son’s train tracks across
the living room floor into elaborate
loopty-loops, with empty waffle
boxes curved into tunnels, and
laughs as I trip over them.
When I catch him reading posts
for the online fan club for Prince,
he blushes. He stays up late
every night to create the songs
which pulse through his brain.
He tosses our son into the air,
up, up, and up, over and over,
with the grace and power of a lion.
He lets me be when I see
the world through a dark window.
He knows that to say nothing
is often the ultimate sign of love.
