Commuter Life

In Manhattan today it’s gray and

from afar I can sense your grayness

too; in stale morning and afternoons

you spend alone. I think about what I’m doing

to you, sometimes. I leave you at the edge

of the bed with a good-day kiss, half

sleeping, both of us on our ways.

Two hours is nowhere

near enough recreational time. Such is a commuter life

and of a currently pregnant, staying at home

wife. Two minutes of alternating leg stretches

is just shy eternal discomfort. Relativity.

This one thing I know is mediocre

poetry from my bloated artist ego, aka

“Copywrite,” isn’t enough to say I’m

thinking of you, near-always. So I will

supplement it with dishes washed,

muscles rubbed and something I pick

up from Grand Central or the corner store.

So that even when I’m away,

on each leg, these long stretches,

you can feel the lengths of my commuter love.