how I love her
in the middle of the week—
nobody’s watching when we’re doing
the ordinary thing,
the regular life in the house
on the regular street.
nobody’s watching
when the love is most complete.
nobody’s watching the weeknight dinner I made,
the argument we had, the tirade
that burned for twenty minutes
and the sorry and the return.
nobody’s watching the repair.
nobody’s watching when I say sorry fast and mean it,
when I do the thing she needs without being asked,
when I choose to be the better man
ten thousand times
in the quiet ways I show up
for this life we have together—
the unglamorous, unglamorous, real
nobody-sees-it love.
the love that plays for nobody
is the only love I trust.
the love that plays for an audience
is the kind that has to perform,
and performing is the rot at the root
of everything empty.
the love that only happens
when the lights are on
is moot.
the love I have for her
is the same at three a.m.
when nobody on earth could see a thing
and condemn or commend the doing of it—
the same in the dark,
the same with nobody watching
as it is in the park.
nobody’s watching when I rearrange the chair
to sit closer to where she reads at night.
nobody’s watching the ten thousand small excursions
into the quiet ordinary of her.
nobody’s watching, just us,
and that’s exactly right.
just us in the ordinary life,
just the man and his woman,
in the legal but in everything that matters of the word.
just us. and that’s enough.