He putters around the kitchen
Turns on the sink
I let him hold me and cushion me
With his soft hard kindness.

He gives gifts as tokens of admiration
And seems to know where everything is that I've lost
He knows just how to turn the record player on
In the little cottage
We let ourselves
Disappear inside of.

He's got words of kind resolution
And speaks endlessly of his passions
As his spectacles make up his face
And the little bit of a place
He's claimed for himself in my life.

Rubbing away the days
Where we pour our art into what we've got
I wonder if I'm a confusing hurricane
But then again I've always been
Just more grounded now.

Time for bed.