Postcard

You're in Dubai, or Singapore, or
somewhere on some business junket and I don't
know what you do everytime you tell me I find it
so impossible to listen but what I do know is that I
am here at home and I am doing our
laundry and its November so rainy so surprisingly
warmish and these sheets out of the dryer onto the bed smoothed by my
hands await you oh come home fly
the redeye come all the way back and get in our bed you'll
be so tired fall right to sleep I'll allow it and amuse myself by
smelling you my nose to your neck, your chest, your hair, your skin
every.inch.so.warm
you'll awake just at dark rain drumming the roof to the feel of me biting your elbow just the
way I do and you will absolutely know what's next and don't you know I
smell like sweet apple-barn wood and my hair falls in your face and
makes you have to rub rub away the tickle and what in the world
does Doug from accounting and Steve-O from the
holiday party have on that oh and that terrible bar I know you're in and that strange faraway land and its crazy ways and people what could it possibly have on this, here, me, these sheets
this bed this rain this hot love light lighting me up enough to dry all this
laundry on this wet wet day all
by only alone all by all by
all by myself?