Languid Winter Sundays

Icicle winter mornings in bed

Insistent bird chirps

our only alarm

Snuggled down deep

below the layers of scratchy wool blankets

from back home

Socks off

Abandoned

on the cold hard wood floor

in the corner

mingling with our clothes

I follow your rules

A whistle from the electric

tea kettle

in the kitchen

cuts through crisp air

A cup of “builder’s tea”

strong, brown, but murky with milk

steams from the wooden end table.

A return to bed for you

your skin chilled

long, endless legs wrap around mine

strong arms encircle me

I am a doll

mouths open

we kiss

Languid Sunday mornings

I wish I could

wrap them up

like richly fried fish & chips

in old inky newspaper

After devoured and satisfied,

I lick the grease with

my tongue.

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