Coming Home to You

Beyond my office window,
below gray clouds blotted clean
with Nor'easter white,
snow thickens the bare branches,
a squirrel flicks its tail and darts
inside a snow-smudged trunk.

Don't worry.  I'm coming home soon.

How the pane trembles
to easterly gusts,
ruffled birds tweeting warning
in their black congregations
of a feather.
Doors are closing around me,
the buzz of fluorescent lights
falling silent before the wind.

When?  It's getting really bad.

My lamp switched off,
white leaves of unfinished work
spread across my desk,
I hear your eyes through the phone,
picking paths between the flakes
to see me safely home.

I'm heading out now.  I love you.

The jingle of metal,
the jab of keys in my hand
as I pull them from my pocket --
your sigh of relief to the familiar
sound of departure.

Drive safe.  I love you, too. 

The phone rests upon the hook
when I taste the hot chocolate
you're sipping by the fire,
sweet from your lips to mine.
Smiling, I plunge into the storm.

Scott Speck
06/04/2000