What I want it to be.

It is the day after the storm and a broken tree is outside

our window. It has cracked, its insides struck black.

It is torn and fallen.

I look for you in the coffee nook of the kitchen

but see only faint grey sunlight peek through

the clouds and curtains and onto the coffee table.

Messy brown halos become its ornaments.

I wonder where you are, besides missing from the bed.

Did you take your coffee elsewhere? To the wet roof?

Or in your robe with our neighbors by the tree

to comment on the carnage washed in.

Suddenly, in the eggshell hallway

between the kitchen and bathroom

I hear the shower run.

Steam rises from cracks in the door

and the smell of coffee becomes overwhelming.