A House of Romantics
Our cat is a Romantic, and a creature of habit.
she demands to be fed at the first
rosy light of dawn.
I awake each morning &, being
a benevolent god, feed her breakfast as the sun
bathes her white coat in coral sunlight.
The kettle boils with fresh water for hot green tea.
I sit outside each morning, a creature of habit, too
to read a book, sometimes fiction, sometimes
poetry, lately, A Movable Feast. Spring has come
out of the depths of a cold winter & moored in
the port of our city.
Its cargo exploding at the seams, pollen fills the air
& my nose runs: distracting, disarming, annoying.
I set the book down taking my wares inside.
My girlfriend is a Romantic, too, it would seem. Though
she does not eat at the first rosy light of dawn. Instead,
the next day, taking my seat on the porch in the cool spring air
my nose beginning to drip, I open my book & right where
my bookmark used to be she had placed three folded tissues.
I suppose she has made me a Romantic, now, too.
I blow my nose at the thought.
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