The cat bats his jingly balls.
You log on, modem screeching,
keys clacking.
I was having morning my way:
a cup of tea,
paper and pen,
the view out my window.
I try not to look over,
but hear the scrunch
of your leather chair,
your papers rattling.
Week-ends I live on the perimeter
of my life,
unable to work at my desk
because you keep the blinds closed.
I shift laundry to Saturday,
spend the day busying about the house,
and all day Monday
trying to remember
who I am.