For Michael Dean Krouse

I sat, knitting and watching tv,
the usual past time of people
like me;
people with too many hands
on other people's time:
meddlesome old bitties.

Things get boring,
everyone that could have
hooked up
already has,
and the writers are deciding who to
kill off;
that is when I think of
you. You,
with your mouth hanging open,
drool on the pillow,
deep,
peaceful,
breathing;
I like to believe this isn't the only time you're happy.

I think of futures beyond
the futures we can
picture
for ourselves now;
the ones where reality actually exists.
With furrowed brows, we
try to pay the rent,
and you tell me, "No.
You can't tear out the carpets
and paint the bedroom floor
to look like a
dissected elephant."
I grumble
and settle for painting the bathroom
purple.

We can never decide
what to do on Fridays.
"Oh my god! Just pick,
already!"
So we stay in,
watch movies,
have too much sex, and
smoke real cigarettes;
wonderful, bleary-eyed,
jelly-kneed, lazy-grinning
Friday nights.

You roll your eyes,
when I eat to much
ice cream and
complain about my stomach ache later.
I roll my eyes,
when you can never
say what you mean right
away.

We argue
about getting married in
a church
or in a field.
I try to compromise:
"We can just stick a crucifix
somewhere nearby -
people will get the
idea."
"Baby,
you're crazy."

I think of futures beyond
the futures we can
picture,
and I always see me
with you.