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Drowsy,
murmurous as a summer river,
heat rising from the rippling surface,
I rest in bed, wasting a morning.
A ceiling fan blades the air.
A starling skitters along the wisteria and the window sill.
The room is redolent with scents of gardenia, pot, port wine.
My wife coughs quietly in her sleep,
back and bare shoulders striped by light through the blinds.
I set the Seagram's bottle aside, fit myself to her.
Telephone off,
Monday and the working week will have to wait.
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