moment us*

you wake me to tell me it's early
and the radiator is spitting again.
the coffee is cold already
and the cups don't match
they hang on the wall, sit on the table
yellow, red, and white-
each handcrafted and imperfect-
gifts from our mothers-
women who do not know us as well as their concern for us,
women who, since they learned of us, do not speak to us-
not even,
as we often joke they might,
to request that we send back the cups.
and we walk away from all of this
barefoot-
across the cold, pine, tongue and groove-
to where the walls are mismatched on purpose-
paneled, purple, and green.
the city below us
waking with us, before dawn,
keeps its head down
stoops its shoulders to defend itself from the wind.
but for us there is music to be heard
for us there is hushed laughter about dust and keys
for us there is whatever is not worrisome.
there is muffled, mumbled conversation
seeping through the floor vents-
unimportant and not for us to hear
but we sit,
barely breathing,
squinting our eyes to hear it clearer.
i lose interest first
and you go on,
proffering me with unnecessary narrative.
but a fresh cup of coffee
and you're on to the topic of the better taste
when it's french pressed
and how she used to make it that way.
"Maybe we should go to Philadelphia."
i say.
my friend is a chef in south jersey
we can have hospitality on the house
in the house near the museum
we can drink wine and sit on the couch.
it beats coffee that refuses to stay luke-warm in this air.
it beats the hard-backed, thrift store chairs.
it may be better than the unforgiving winter by the lake.
but you look up in time to see the first glimpse of morning orange and pink
and it reflects in your green eyes-
shines on your face
and i stay-
in this sudden spring-
beside you on someone else's discarded futon.

*selected for publication on Girls with Insurance!