He was a Rainy Sunday Afternoon relationship
the the sort of affair you describe as 'leisurely'
when you mean 'slow and a little dull'.
One of those that seems to lead,
interminably,
inevitably
toward a salmon-sandwich-and-rock-buns
kind of ending:
quiet, polite,
disappointing.
Not, bad, as such;
not a time I will regret,
how, after all, can one regret
that which one struggles to recall?
And he was necessary, perhaps,
a breath-catching interval
separating
the wild ride of Saturday Night man
in all his stupid intensity:
his Led Zep and tequila slammers
that left me wrecked and rocking
In a corner, drenched in
hungover tears, and
you, my Everyday love.
You, who I have to work at
all week, who demands my
careful attention, who, I know,
might always be a
moment's neglect or a
single mistake away from
loss. You who feeds me,
warms me, gives me
the kick that gets me
out of bed on cold mornings.
You, who I often wish
I didn't need
so much.
