To-do Lists

I wake at the usual time with no alarm

on a day he can finally cash in the dawn, 

those hours his body sleeps best, having been 

up from three to five, as always, with the stars.

I wait, turn on the spit of morning boredom 

over random dreams that come unwanted

to the well-rested, restless, vaguely hoping 

or reading this and that, writing a line or two

in a dusty book. Get up to let the dog out.

Make our tea and coffee. Now he’s awake 

in the hall in his robe. Hi, Nakey, he says, 

pouring cream and honey. Goose pimpled,

I slip on a zippered hoody, use the bathroom. 

Wash. We sit in bed sipping, me writing 

a quick text, him scrolling news and reviews 

of a new version of his old phone. Our cups 

empty. He stands, groans, touches his back, 

slides into Carharts, a t-shirt, plumbing plans. 

Leaves. Propped against two pillows, I fight

the sting, think of pulling wild sunflowers 

from the stone path, shaking their corpses 

like autumn rattles to spread black seeds 

across vulnerable, disturbed soil surrounding 

our vacant greenhouse, almost plumbed, 

where we spent some other Saturday pulling 

hundreds of sun-sharpened tumbleweeds, 

all gone to seed, arms bleeding, destined 

for the slash pile, a scheduled winter fire.