That’s Romance, Baby

The nail clipper left out for me on the lid of the toilet seat
because we’re so in sync, so in love, our nails grow at the same
speed. Your whistling, like a tracker, a GPS, a dropped pin.
The dogs and I hear your classical rendition before a single
pruned nail taps at the keypad to let you in. I wrote gods in lieu of
dogs and I laugh, because they are our little gods, aren’t they? Your pencil
behind your ear, forgotten to the relentless music in your mind, to the
buzzing melodies and syncopation and oh GOD you wear those
jeans that I love, wear those jeans that I love wear them wear them
wear them—the ones that hug your sailor’s butt—and I don’t
know why but they make me go wild, knock me out and
bring me back to life, knock me out and bring me back again,
put me in a tailspin. Is there a maritime equivalent? To tailspin?
To being a good ole fashioned horndog of a woman?
We’ve just made it home, the last rain of this year’s mild fall
beading the windshield as we bridge the gear shift, your tongue in
my mouth, my giggles in yours before we sprint across the wet gravel
and up the stairs into what’s mine and yours. When it’s late in the
night with the first touch of snow outside, the silhouette of our
moving bodies and the flakes drunkenly falling, shy and slow,
we christen winter.