We're Just So Tired Is All

On the pull-out couch of marriage,
a man snores ponderously, with his left arm dead tired from work, and the other instinctively wrapped around his wife

as if to say

‘this ought to hold you in place’
..which he’d said once before

after the last nail was hammered in to the house..
Wherein bed, her unconscious sighs and squirms, and emerald eyes, although closed, seem to want
and paints a picture sleeping beauty would awe

connecting her thighs to his waist, give out a clue, if he’d known
that he’s just a man - and she just a woman
and the ring of power that he stuck on her finger
meant vehemently more than a one-night flame that dies out and then lingers
like the candle in the attic
full of dust and old newspapers
from 1939 -

before the world was round
and the children went off
to school
 long before the uncomfortable beach chair
and the sensitive child
was even born

and the night passed on and on
like the stream above the staircase

which, they still leave unanswered
then, the head-spin of an owl
or the ubiquitous scent of vanilla/hazelnut

in her pores, between her legs
as she gracefully clenches the sheets
and he follows her deep into the forest of love
or, failing that, at least to the outskirts
and he hangs his shirt on the fence and checks the mailbox for a sign
of submission
would be perfect right now
but instead the head-spinning owl leads them into the morning

where a coffee sits and waits for no less than 2 hours

and the moon going down passes the sun coming up

'Farewell and good morning

and Goodbye to you too'