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on a good day

when I get home from work

the sun has not set all the way

and light still comes in

there is some bread

in the silver breadbox

some homemade jam

and water in the kettle

the heat is working well

i can take off my wool socks

put on an old record

slow dance to my desk

on a good day

you might be in any

number of places

in the mood to talk

if not, I can still smile

I understand that too

so I find the words

you leave behind

I read them slowly

with tea and toast

listening to an old record

as the light dims

it's slow dance enough,

for a night like this

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there is something more, here -

more than the other half of the bed,

than the space next to me on the sofa

at the party I feel uncomfortable at,

bigger than the frying pan

being used to make only

one portion of pancakes

the second space in the toothbrush holder,

room on the bench by the river,

just instances,

of something

more.

heavier than the pile of records

bought with you in mind,

taller than the shelves

to hold all our poetry.

there is something more, here -

and for now, I sit with it

like these mountains

waiting out the weather

dreaming during the day,

because I never do at night