You ache for companionship.
No champion steps forward.
Your spouse is down with a migraine.
Friends do not answer your call.
Neighbors are away on holiday.
The bartender cannot be bothered
to turn from his want ads.
Even the moon,
the big-hearted benevolent moon,
behaves like a coveted woman
unconcerned with your existence.
You find yourself at last call
boxed in by insufferable strangers,
wrestling a poem about longing
and self-pity.
Too fatigued to labor for creation,
you scratch out a few restless lines
and wander into the twilight
chasing streetlamps
until you can no longer bear
the shuffle of your footsteps.
You scurry home
and crawl into bed next to her.
She cradles you with her naked form.
Gentle fingers navigate the stories
written upon your bodies:
adolescent scars,
a child's birth,
unwanted surgeries,
beloved tattoos.
Every anxious vibration stands still.
Even the best lines
of Whitman or Shakespeare
are wanting beside her.
Leave them in the dresser drawer
and bid goodnight.
