You circulate through the air
like pollen, and the sunlight
that streams through the front door
you always leave open.
You watch the feeder for goldfinches
and mix turmeric into your morning shake,
powdery and bilious, as you bang the spoon
fast against the sides of the glass.

You sit in the butter-yellow room and type,
wrangling grammar under your breath.
Sometimes you’re serious,
but mostly you make me squint
and pull the shades down
because I’m deep blue
and my eyes are used to moonlight.

Sometimes I run over and shut the light off.
Sometimes I slam the door.
Sometimes my punchlines
are serious answers to your jokes.
Sometimes I play sad songs
while you’re trying to work.

When you’re gone, though, I miss you,
and all the dandelions
of your insouciant whims
sprawling over the lawn:

pennies from heaven
cropping up everywhere, unaware
of their own craggy abundance
or the water that conjured them
every time it rained.

© Psyche Marks 2017

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