(cold)

A cold morning
just as predicted,
the wind picks up
road debris and blows
it past my window.
The cats hunker
down into their fur,
staring in through
the French doors.

My heart turns in
on itself, resenting
your messy desk,
the way you drive
me out when you
come home,
not with anything
you say or do
but just that energy
you put out
that claims space
around you.
The way you close
the shades all weekend
and make our room
a cave, a dark and
dreary place
I would never
think of going.

Many women
have this dilemma
of only getting to
be themselves
when the men
are gone.
Not because the
men say they
cannot, but
only that they
make is so
impossible.

2/11/99