Poetry: One Day Older

One Day Older

Each morning, I pull back our top sheet

and slide into the bed’s buttery softness. Early

riser, I return to wake you, to throw my leg

over you as you face me and I take in

your still-blue-eyed beauty, though you say

this casts aspersions on my sanity.

We are one day older. Each day

we stack like coins on the bedside

before you rise and shave and head

to the kitchen to mollify pets,

drink your coffee over NY Times obits,

which you later report, especially

if the dead are your age, or all too young.

We may worry how this love story ends

but today—and maybe tomorrow and the next

day—we will decide whether to grill

pork chops for dinner or make linguine. I will

remind you to hydrate because July, nowadays,

is sweltering, and you will turn on the AC

when I get distracted. But mostly we’ll

go about our day on separate tracks until

we happen to converge at morning.

One day older.

{Originally published at ANTAE Journal, Fall 2024}

{Photo by Rachel Keohan for Scopio}