Sick Day Saturday

Rainy day. A cold, winter Saturday.
A chill in my skin, even as I cook her
my special recipe chicken noodle soup.
 I look at the wet and mud, muted color.
It feel so much more real to me now,
not like the lush summers of youth.
 I ladle out the soup, trapping lots of
chicken, my girlfriend loves the chicken,
and the fat egg noodles.
 Bowl on plate, spoon in bowl,
walking carefully to where she
lays on the couch.
 My breath catches, seeing her,
my lover, my woman, still a dreamer
of fantastic worlds.
 Wrapped in a blue blanket, wearing
her favorite hoodie, nose all the way
in an old Mighty Maid comic, from long ago.
 She’s kept something I’ve lost, an innocence,
a purity and hope, a belief in a better world
and the holiness of our heroes.
 Mighty Maid, like when we were young,
and she’s get a piece of that girl inside her,
where I’m just bitter, waiting for the fall.
 Like a sick day from school, curled up on
the couch, wrapped in the armor of blankets,
lost in dream worlds, fantastic places.
 So lost in the world beyond her, so ready to fly.
I watch her for a moment, just entranced by her,
her sweetness, her angelic light.
 She looks up, smiles, puts down the comic as I
place the steaming hot soup on the coffee table.
I kiss her head, her cheek, her cute little nose.
 She smiles, and starts to eat the chicken soup.
We talk, about the high and perfect days past,
about what we plan to do, once married, on our own.
 She curls up to nap, and I kiss her cheek, see her smile.
I go back to the kitchen to clean up, and see the sun coming,
and for a moment, for my lover, I believe in the light.

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