This poem is a--
it's a love poem, actually, to my husband.
It's called "Cozy Apologia."
And we have, at our house in Virginia,
we have studies on the second floor
on opposite ends of a hallway.
And my husband's a novelist.
It's wonderful when someone else is working at the same time
that you're working.
Also, it keeps you, kind of, honest.
You want to get up and have some chocolate
and he's still working.
[LAUGHTER]
So you're back to your desk.
But we also started a--
our book are in between us--
He started on one end next to his study
and I started my end and--
and with our own brands of organization
because we knew if we got in the middle we would have arguments,
and we did--
[LAUGHTER]
And we still do, I mean, sometimes I'll
go over to his section and grab a book
and say, he belongs to poetry and he'll come get it and say,
he belongs with the Germans.
And, you know--
[LAUGHTER]
"Cozy Apologia."
I couldn't pick anything and think of you.
This lamp, the wind-still rain, the glossy blue my pen exudes,
drying matte upon the page.
I could choose any here, any cause or age.
And sure as shooting arrows to the heart,
astride a dappled mare, legs braced as far apart
as standing in silver stirrups will allow.
There you'll be, with furrowed brow and chain mail glinting,
to set me free.
One eye smiling, the other firm upon the enemy.
This post-postmodern age is old business, compact disks
and faxes.
A do it now and take no risks event.
Today, a hurricane is nudging up the coast.
Oddly male, Big Bad Floyd, who brings a host of daydreams,
awkward reminiscences of teenage crushes on worthless boys
whose only talent was to kiss you senseless.
They all had sissy names, Marcel, Percy, Dewey.
Were thin as licorice and as chewy.
Sweet with a dark hollow center.
Floyd's cussing up a storm.
You're bunkered in your aerie.
I'm perched in mine.
Twin desks, computers, hardwood floors.
We're content, but fall short of the divine.
Still, it's embarrassing, this happiness.
Who's satisfied simply with what's good for us.
When has the ordinary ever been good news?
And yet, because nothing else will
do to keep me from melancholy, call it blues,
I feel this stolen time with you.