I love

the way you return from errands
with a present — a Danish, book, or bottle
of champagne

how you thank me for every meal
from coq au vin to a ham sandwich
and make coworkers think
I'm Julia Child

hearing your voice in conversation
downstairs before realizing
that you're talking to the cats
in the same serious tone you use
with plumbers

how you told me I was funny long before
anyone else did

that time in France when I said our waiter
looked like Orlando Bloom and you answered
then we'll have to come back tomorrow

the fun of reading a book you've just finished
and finding oops! duh! or what a jerk!
penciled in the margin

the way you reach for my hand
before crossing the street

how you describe every dark-eyed
brunette — she looks like you — no matter
how silver I go.

No wonder forty years have sneaked by.


This poem first appeared in Minute Magazine.
Used here with permission.