You Look Like Morning

"Baby, I have been here before,

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor." -Leonard Cohen

I ate dinner with your family on Sunday night,
which you know, you were there,
choking on the smell of sweet potatoes,
while I sat there with the green plate,
my favorite color,
wanting dinner to never be over.
Sundays are meant for escaping,
and I went chasing the faintest diamond
to arrive in front of your house, like so
many summer evenings stuck together.

We hummed harmonies while I paced
maniacally back and forth, kept hitting
that chair but never moved it, kept looking
straight at you but never showed it.
Right, I’ve slept in this room,
that’s what it is that makes me feel
at home. Nodding politics with your mom,
debating semantics with your dad—
Is soup a food? So many questions unanswered.
Like so many songs gone unsung,
trapped instead in the back-pockets of mimes,
trembling in the foyer, afraid to say goodbye.
They are the sweetest, the anonymous.
I am the evening wind brushing your arm.
The summer kite flying over your lips.

Your Vikings sweats,
your thick-rimmed glasses,
your unpainted toenails
made you look like Morning,
in every way as unprepared
as it is marvelous.
What I would give to be able
to wake up to Morning.

You looked straight at me
while loudly chewing ice
without even thinking twice,
while I took my time,
eating every last bite
of my family dinner
Sunday night.