Minor Expedition

Encased beneath the snow,

This cold, east wind

Cutting like blades,

But amongst it,

The shivering air,

The deliberate choreography,

Of people getting by,

The memory of you,

In my t shirt,

Commanding a cup of tea,

From a warm pillow throne,

I allow you to pretend,

Whose in charge, baby girl,

These wintry indulgences,

And the promise of warm,

Buttery skin and the springy

Press of muscle beneath,

Not a disposable martyr,

But a man about his day,

Tongue pressed to the roof,

Of my mouth,

Imagining the wicked games,

To keep out the cold,

And yes, a cup of tea,

As a gift without expectations,

Set on the side as I rejoin you

Beneath the blanket ceiling.


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