out past the screen door
night sneaks up
like a black cat,
dewy with fog.
in the trees out back
an owl cries “who”
while katydids sound
their mating call.
my wife calls me to bed,
two times. the first
is a whispered hush
between tall pines swaying
in an evening breeze.
the second knifes
through twenty-three years
of habit and spurs me
down the hall.
she’s tucked under the sheets
as linen curtains wave
from each gust
of a midsummer night’s dream
peeking into our room.
unsure if she’s asleep,
i strip down to shorts
and peel back the covers
cool as an onion,
her body familiar
and warm as she rolls
on her side and faces the wall.
