As You Read This

I see you at your breakfast,
toast crumbs on blue cloth,
empty eggshells gaping,
on your third coffee.
Lazy sun leaning in the window,
you’re oblivious of the glory
as you read this.

I see you on the crowded train,
elbows tucked,
confined by the glare
of the obesity beside you.
Perhaps it rains,
speed whipping the drops
into a frenzied horizontal relay
across the dusty window
as you read this.

I see you in a hotel room
in a distant city.
The bed looks hard,
you and the shabby furniture
sag wearily.
Air conditioner wheezes with the heat
and street rumble seeps in.
You stand in the dingy light
as you read this.

I see you on a beach,
white sand, elbow propped,
distance surf hissing summer bliss.
Children laugh,
you watch as they scampere by,
remembering.
You are smiling
as you read this.

I see you in our hide-away,
your head in my lap.
A hand tangles my hair
the other holds the paper.
Firelight reflects on low beams
and your face,
the paper trembles
as you read this.