He gives me that look
and I know what's coming.
I set down my book and we get to it.
For this long together we are better
than most. But lying there with him,
I lie, there, with him.
As a sunrise of lamplight crests
the timberline of his balding skull,
I experiment with words in exotic positions
rolling them, naked on my paper brain
until there is nothing more to say,
no ink left in the pen,
and we reach across each other
only to turn out the light.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-lover-of-sorts/
