Not short, short-changed, or feeling so.
I'd rather be hanging out horizontally, prone
beneath fresh sheets, flipping pages in a book
while an ocean breeze intrudes from the open
slider, flips my hair so slightly against your arm
tucked beneath me that it tickles.
Thundering surf close but distant too,
I'd stretch long and cat-like, dozing, book
closing without so much as a goodbye
or fare-thee-well, catnap before I'm required
to stand on my own two feet, stand up and be
counted, stand my ground. I can't stand this, don't
understand. I want to lay down instead,
down-filled pillow the color of clouds
and just as soft, beneath our heads.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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