You put hot water in my
coffee mug before the coffee

you fold my underwear
put it in neat stacks

sometimes, in the winter, you
start my car before work, or I yours

you make dinner, set my up my plate,
perfectly.  I do the dishes.

you make the bed for both of us
even if I’ve already tried

I never met your parents, we talked as we
sold your dad’s spare garage door tracks

You were beautifully foreign to me
and still are, but you’re not.

I rub your shoulder while you’re driving
You change lanes, a moan

subtracting away a few minutes of
holding our third child

Sometimes I’m wrong to you
I fester about it, it haunts me

then I hear you on the phone say,
“sweetie” as a natural part of your speech

my insides invert
I can breathe right again