At various points in our REM sleep,
I am the toasty one.
Or so says Ron, who’s turned into me and is so warm himself,
I allow myself to be cocooned for another luxurious hour.
Sleep is the night cream against the grizzled, soldierly grimace
I know will be on his face when he opens his eyes and
remembers: “Fuck, I locked my keys in my car last night.”

I watch him like a cat, sometimes.
His habits are familiar, and his gimlet eyed morning expression
is, to me, more catlike in its disregard for caprice and
unpredictability than any cat meme.

His morning cigarette, the first one of the day,
is spent on the sidewalk in front of our building.
It’s a good day, regardless of a passerby stopping to “buy”
a cigarette off him, and usually not even having the requisite light
to ignite it once given.

If my first response to bad news is less than sanguine, also not good,
I defend myself,
is his timing.

My better self is on hiatus until a solution arrives.

We’ll kiss each other good morning,
but we both remember words said the night before.