Through the slow hours

Cuddlology

It is mid-afternoon and we sail a sofa
through the slow hours, after mowing,
or washing the car, walking dogs we don’t
have, fixing leaky hardware or tending
to some minor caulking around grouted
tile we’ve yet to finish extending along
the rest of a counter or foyer. Thus we lie,
side by side, me behind you in faded denim
shorts with shredded white wisps of fray
brushing against the skin of your legs where
my hand smoothes settled acres of girlflesh
become woman-summered gardens, supple
and ripe for tending with care and adoration.



We doze in a napping wheel spun with
brief dreams fit for such laze and letting
go, the pleats of our paisley breath falling
in measure to a kitchen clock around the
corner we are not even aware of. Songbirds
bring us back and we do not move, remaining
instead this way knowing such afternoons
may never come again and there is yet time
before this one slips into what evening brings.

Joseph Gallo
May 9, 2011