Always

I am there in the bed
on
top of the covers
waiting for the thunder to start
so I can
go to the closet and
retrive an umbrella. Go down
and wait
to open it
for a
few seconds
while the rain lands on my head. There’s always
that. The cold rain.
There’s always anger and
being pissed off in the evenings too.
Screaming
silently at the wall, gesturing
at the dumb blank wall.
There’s always the cat in the morning
jumping onto bed and
I don’t want to touch her
though she hasn’t been touched in two or three days
so I’ll give in.
There’s always telephone numbers
and websites and the tunnels
between them that
people dig.
The RMV and City Hall.
Parking permits and broken
washing
machines and visits
from our parents.
There’s always the neighbor
watering her flowers
from a red can in a tanktop and shorts and
her lopsided hair, telling me about her
deceased dog and
psychics. And the men power
sanding
and sawing and making plans for buildings
and buildings that will be changed or
destroyed, and the wealthy
dogs
with their women and the poor crazy men
with bandaged fingers
waiting for change at the laundromat.

There’s always all of that.

And there’s me and then there’s
you and there’s
the both of us.

I don’t feel them though. I only feel
you in the bed, and the fan
blowing on me
and the quietness of the new apartment
we’ve moved
into together, and that
little sound under my ribs that’s
already
starting while it’s still dark.
That little sound of day
in me
that will
stand up when I stand up, and start to
boil
when I go outside and it will bubble
till I go to sleep with you, you
there you are,
and a few stars will still be in between leaves
and the cat will hop upon our bed.

There’s that every day.