Love Poem 5
Here is a love poem for you about two people
in love:
in the morning, one partner,
the early riser,
gets up and trips on a pile of dirty clothes that didn’t
make their way to the hamper, and that’s fine.
Hardly the end of the world, though the
distraction
brings the right big toe into the contact with the dresser.
The early riser fights to
cuss quietly
so as not to wake the sleeper,
nor the dog fast asleep in the crate in the living room of
the cramped apartment.
Biting one’s tongue is easier said than done when
thoughts of broken toes alongside rising aggravation are
dancing through the mind.
The early riser goes into the bathroom and drops trow
and sits down
on the throne.
Early morning piss.
Early morning shit.
It all gets taken in through a lens of gratitude as the
earlier riser knows this might be the
only time
in the day where there is
peace and quiet
available to enjoy.
Of course, the dog starts up as the first turd hits the water
and the early rise wonders if the sleeper
climbs out of bed to quiet the dog or
just rolls over.
Who knows if luck is in the cards today because luck can be
defined so easily through its own absence
and a day can only go as it will go.
As luck, or its absence, would dictate, the sleeper continues
to sleep, prompting the early rise to
reach for an empty roll of toilet paper.
Rising aggravation begins to settle into a simmer,
and there is little choice but to awkwardly waddle to get
a roll from under the sink and continue to stifle the cursing
begging to make itself known.
And so, with a sore toe and a half-done shit and a barking dog,
the early riser has a taste of what the world might hold today.
Whatever the case might be, a few quick wipes and it’s on to
washing the hands, which becomes demonstrably harder when
there is no soap, but maybe there is enough to eke out a
handwash.
On to brushing the teeth and pushing luck with a
barking dog, and
debating whether or not putting off showering is a viable
solution for another day
and the debate is a quick one: there isn’t time right now.
Maybe tonight.
But, what if the sleeper craves the early riser to be
presentable—
whatever that might mean.
This is a poem about love though, not about
what might mean what and what
might mean something else.
This poem is about walking out of that fortress of solitude
and some days it feels like it is the early riser against
the world.
While the sleeper is curled up in bed, dreaming while the early riser
has a throbbing toe, half-empty guts with a rushed wipe and
grim prospects of an improving day.
Thoughts turn to the kick in the shin that jarred the
early riser from sleep’s embrace and waking with a corner
of a blanket in a cold room.
Bitterness begins spreading and the simmering aggravation
continues its march to a boil.
Reaching for the toothbrush is one thing,
reaching for the toothpaste is another.
An empty tube will not yield the
pea-sized block suggested on the box.
Is there even enough to smear on the toothbrush to at least say
there is the flavour of toothpaste?
Despite already deciding against a shower, the early riser
uses half of the dribble of toothpaste the tube yields,
knowing there isn’t much point, but doing it just the same.
Being in love isn’t as exciting or as surprising as
falling in love
and the mysteries are different altogether.
Love, it seems, is sometimes knowing whether or not
none at all is worse than almost enough.
What is love, after all, if it doesn’t get under your skin?
Perfect love is for the books and the poems written by people
who want what they have never felt.
Real love is stepping out of the bathroom
bleary eyed,
unwashed,
simmering,
and staring at the dog howling, and all before
one is even really awake.
