This is how I do it,

Outside, walking at an ungodly hour of life–

Unwilling.

Each step protesting the next,

as I think of bed–

linen sheets, lingering lavender, and unfinished dreams. 

It’s an in-between time–

Too early to be morning,

Too late to be night.

And it belongs to no one and everyone. 

She sits above me and watches as I

shitkick the stone on the pavement to see 

if I can make it to the end of the street 

like a child.

Adult me knows very well that

the pavement never ends 

in suburbia.

One mile in and I see things now–

Dew on the creeping myrtles.

Tiny lizards fleeing the aggressive sniffing of a poodle nose.

A murder of crows orchestrating a hostile takeover of the 

finch’s claim to the trees 

along the dog park. 

I look up and she’s still here. 

Half lazy smile–

Like she’s proud of me for getting it together enough to lift my head.

Like she’s saying,

“That’s how you do it. You lift your chin and use your eyes.”

Simple, really. 

And I cup my hand around her face,

The whole of her

In the smallness of my palm–

Long enough to be seen. 

Bring her to 

my chest. 

Inhale.