I'm painting your bed
with strokes of white,
covering over what's chewed,
and chipping
and imperfect.
A new coat, Glass of Milk,
on the headboard
and the footboard.
I'm painting your bed,
on the porch, in the breeze,
forcing myself into the cracks
that were neglected
that were missed before.
I try to avoid painting
the porch rail,
the spiderwebs.
I'm painting your bed
while you're away for a time,
forming relationships with others,
distant from our home
but not from my heart.
When you return,
you'll rest in clean sheets
with a cat at your feet.
I'm painting your bed
and it's hard for me,
because I have good ideas
which are often started
but not finished.
And so I force myself
to accomplish this thing
before you come back to sleep.
