Early morning, he is
not rushed – he fills a
coffee pot to the number ten –
He will never know
when a full cup of
coffee is found on the counter –
or near the window
in my office –
is like cooking too much macaroni –
in his eyes.
I am pleased he works, but drinks their coffee.
I swing open a
cupboard door – he hates noise, or even light in morning,
forgot the noise – I thought, as I place
a cup on granite - a cup sings - upsets him. . .
he never slams a
or lets go of its’ handle,
or will you hear glass
We are, and will be opposites
we knew it from the start
when he asked me once to re-make
our bed, tossed his ironed
Shirts back into a white
wicker hamper –
he made the bed better than me, he learned too -
To iron in the Air Force – that made him a neat freak,
perfect – his closet
arranged by color –
his shoes – polished, his morning planned -
he doesn’t like coffee
beans – too much noise on the counter, he pretends
to dislike the taste.
Noise will break his morning into shreds.
He shops, I watch as he buys only coffee on sale,
two for one – taste mind you.
My eyes stare – where is he? I slip a brown
bag beneath frozen chicken –
He won’t read the name
mocha on the label – he
won’t wear his glasses
out of the house
in the early morning light –
every – single
turned the water to high
Inside a drawer –
once, on purpose – then
heard him pace upstairs – as he listened
for the quiet
I listened for his
feet on our staircase
I once asked why this simple -
noise killed his silence and tore apart his
as if to detest morning and drag out night
into morning darkness until he leaves
Where noise is not aloud, he works then
he leaves by light.