At the end of the day he’s someone to come home to, a voice
in the hallway, stopping the clocks. My mixed-up morning
doesn’t matter anymore: smog, time cards, deadlines, ink,
Eloise crying again in her cubicle. I leave it all
behind: angry whir of the fax machine, requests for ergonomic chairs,
and the afternoon’s robotic conversations: eligible for benefits
in thirty days; sign here, Ms. Montgomery; sign here, Mr. Grey.
Home at last, I empty the blues from my pockets.
I tell him I love him and think I mean it. And that’s close enough
to happiness, his keys retired on the hook next to mine, scent
of cologne in my den. He pours the wine and I’ve got a reason
to wear that new red dress. The bed will be warm
on both sides tonight. The stars, like wolves,
will herd their lights into packs that look less lonely.
