I subscribe to NPR 's "The Writer's Almanac," which delivered this funny-true-to-life poem to my mailbox today.  If you subscribe, you can click on a link to hear Garrison Keillor read the poem of the day, and each day there are interesting facts about various writers and historical figures related to that particular date in history.  Today, for example, I learned how Samuel Clemens came by the name Mark Twain, and how his only surviving child marked Twain's grave with a fitting memorial. 

But the poem really made me smile this morning, though 1) Mark never complains about anything (which is rather disgusting but wonderful, trust me); 2) I don't eat licorice; 3) he drinks soy milk; and 4) his hair may have begun a sabbatical, but it's not gray. 

I guess what I'm saying is the essence of this poem rang so true for I couldn't help but put it on my blog.  So now I'll shut up and let you enjoy it.  I'm going to have a cup of coffee.

            The man I love enters the kitchen
with a groan, he just
woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.
A minty kiss, a hand
on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,
microwave. He collapses
on a chair, stunned with sleep,
yawns, groans again, complains
about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.
            I want to tell him how
much he slept, how well,
the cacophony of his snoring
pumping in long wheezes
and throttles—the debacle
of rhythm—hours erratic
with staccato of pants and puffs,
crescendi of gulps, chokes,
pectoral sputters and spits.
            But the microwave goes ding!
A short little ding! – sharp
as a guillotine—loud enough to stop
my words from killing the moment.
            And during the few seconds
it takes the man I love
to open the microwave, stir,
sip and sit there staring
at his mug, I remember the vows
I made to my pillows, to fate
and God: I'll stop eating licorice,
become a blonde, a lumberjack,
a Catholic, anything,
but bring a man to me:
            so I go to him: Sorry, honey,
sorry you had such a rough night,
hold his gray head against my heart
and kiss him, kiss him.

"After a Noisy Night" by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1997. Reprinted with permission.


Image from Mutable Sound "an online gallery for sound and word"