by bern butler

What I want, doing done,
is to sit on the couch
stare through the window
at an ordinary sky, feel
the brocade cushion
graze my palm, familiar,
its silky spill of ochre tassel.

For a flutter
in the blooming Cherry
to lure my eyes to the branch
where a startling thrush
intensely sits; to stay
with that until you,
carrying
the scent of sawdust,
reappear from the shed,
switch the kettle on
scuffle for a spoon,
then open the fridge,
pause, as expected, in its purr
before asking
what we were having
for dinner, if I wanted tea.

What I have
is wishful thinking,
love-hate time travel
with my pen
along deserted tracks,
voices somewhere,
the radio,
cat snoring softly in her chair,
sunbeams making puppets
of my fingers –
the long weekend beckoning
from the un-obfuscated page.