WorK

WorK

From under the crumpled bed-sheets
stick out a toe and pull it back
into the warmth of slumber
and your accusatory body.

Into the twilight of outside

stare without thinking,
listening to your breathing
on my unhallowed skin.

Then in the phone of missed calls
type with my guilty fingers:
“Don’t wait for me today, hun.
Working late.” Sigh and send.