Early but the sun’s long up,
no sleep to be had, trapped
in this tent. Worry unzips me,
stumbles me onto sodden grass—
I sit out my dread in our car, watch
a couple framed in the rear-view mirror.
They’d see me as more than blessed,
the pudge of young hands sticky in mine,
the weight of your arm at my neck—
watch a couple rounded with age,
a couple adrift in a single dream,
camping table between them—
nothing to say or unsay,
glazed in the same blossoming dawn.
Grey Sparrow Journal 