drinking blueberry kombucha, feet up on the dash
with my wool socks bunched around the ankles
like a stubby trunked tree
reflecting in the windshield above me
while he talks

about how his day went yesterday,
about the problem solved
at work where he had to
utilize the term I don’t know
to deconstruct the thing I don’t get
and implement something
that requires a lot of calculations he did
which were successful so
a lot of people were happy
and so I was happy too.

tracing his profile with my eyes
and loving the way his lashes curve
like the spindly branches of a young sapling,
as I answer his question about my day

with the way I watched the bird-feeder in the morning
while I drank my coffee and I liked the way the blue-jay flitted
away, his wings like blue ribbons in a breeze
and then I wrote a poem about it on a napkin
and when he asks to see the napkin I say
it isn’t ready yet, nothing is ever ready and so I guess
also, that must mean nothing I do is ever really done.

rolling the window down and
stretching my arm out to drag through the air
while he drives, maybe I can
create my own pair of wings,
his singing along to the radio making me think
about the way the freckle on his right palm
sits just right over the birth mark on my left
when he holds my hand in the car
on our way to the lake to spend the weekend stargazing,
talking about our days, opposite and the same
like the moon and the sun
when you’re lucky, that chance way they
sit in the same sky for a little while.