Where cats lie languid in windows and stare, insolent and
cool, to neighbors and cars.
Where children curl into warm, golden-pink balls on the
couch, long eyelashes fluttering on flushed cheeks.
Where books and magazines collect like sheet pastry in piles, shut or
open-leaved in corners, on the ottoman.
Where dust motes ride the light lazily through the big windows,
curtains drawn back.
Where I slide, fox-sly and flirting, under your arm, tip my face
up for a kiss after children have retired noisily to toy-clogged beds.
Where we collect in the heart, like cells, to congeal
before rushing out madly once more.