Popping mints, one, two, three in my mouth
(so that I avoid building more insidious habits)
but no savor, crunch, no chew; look across the room at you,
sentimental-faced clutching a blanket you're swaddled up in,
tucked in that wicker rocking chair pretending the rainy pane
can catch your interest while you run rivets in the rug
ignoring me seeing you.

You assume I've always got my nose to the ground
and eyes on a rose, hand around a pen, and it's for this I think your eyes
shine black and wet like a villa in a valley touched by winter rain.