we both own bathrobes now
the long walk to the breakfast table
standing at the counter while the water boils
light searing through the patio doors

I’m naked under mine
a minor thrill—he’s fully dressed. my legs cross beneath
the newspaper. silk against my open flesh
it never quite keeps me out

he’ll never know the static jolt
homes stacked on homes looking into ours
like Arctic terns—we are just birds in holes
and he, wrapped inside his nest

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