Saturday Morning

Saturday Morning

Here is a poem I found while you were sleeping;

it reminds of the particular ways

you make me love you,

and I’ll just leave it here,

in case you get a chance to read it;

here is a cup of coffee, black the way you like it,

that I will set beside you on top of the clock radio

as you page through the discography

of Frank Zappa. Here is another pillow

for propping up against; yes, I am going

to make some toast for us but first,

I can’t help mentioning

how the pheromones

draw the cats to the bed,

how they loll in the tangle of our sheets,

too blissed-out to swipe at your bare toes.

I am having aftershocks,

finding reasons

to interrupt you, to bite your shoulder and press

my face against your back .

You just want to read—is that asking too much on a Saturday

morning in February? When last night you met me with

pea soup and smoky scotch and led me to our couch

to tell me everything with your hands?

I will leave you alone now,

but first I need to know if you’ll want marmalade

or butter only,

and I was just thinking of bringing you this,

and a small black cat,

and just, I promise, one more kiss.

Nancy A. Henry