Pleasures of the Day
The pleasures of the day include
your predictable distance from me
at the breakfast table, the simple
movement of your hands leafing
back to the preface of a book, and
even the shoes that are not in the
closet. I could go into somersaults
about the swinging motion of your
legs below a patterned light skirt,
the length of your vowels in a string
of consonants, or being wedged
with you in among a quilt and two
dogs on the couch. At night I give
my prayers to the perfect balance
of your earlobes and the odd moles
stippled on your stomach and breasts.
The pleasures of the day count your
sympathies when I make you listen
to my important poetic document.
But, most of all, the pleasures of the
day are the pauses as you draw in your
breath before I am told you love me.
Even the mimicking, contrarian
is swept up by the rapturous
of Spring, pacing nervously a circular
the trellis-work, moments later
the roof, flaunting its pale gray
spindly legs, broadcasting an
harsh chjjj into the steepening
last faint triplet shredding off on
the other side
of the garden. Still, how odd it is
to you, my
cavorting about the kitchen table,
a slow Barry White in my deepest,
croak, without the smallest pretension
just a full-throated wail of lust.
©2012 by Charles Cessna
Charles Cessna studied poetry at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he took his degree
in religious studies. His poems most recently appeared in the North American Review.