Out of Office AutoReply

It’s always a rush,

whether an hour

or ten

is ours to use and panic through

before setting sail.

‘Where is my …?’ you ask,

though it’s always where it is

- the bed, the floor, the cupboard drawer; I direct

and you are

grateful, every time. Evey single one.

Have I ever had such gratitude?

But this dance,

once

begun,

must be choreographed to finale.

And we know it by heart.

I shout and dither, my stone pride aquiver;

you order me hither, and thither, and ‘whither?!’

Struck mule, I ab-so-LUTE-ly refuse.

And we stop.

And we stare.

Or we scratch without care

at old wounds

inflicted many bright-eyed moons

ago, like cats –

equidistant from the other

and someone new,

with no reason

just yet

to choose one over other.

You oil my stiffer parts

back into just-about-working order

and I am love itself.