After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
For I can snore like a bullhorn or play loud music or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman and Fergus will only sink deeper into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, but let there be that heavy breathing or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house and he will wrench himself awake and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together, after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, familiar touch of the long-married, and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens, the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—
which one day, may make him wonder
about the mental capacity
of baseball players and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child. In the half darkness we look at each other and smile and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body— this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, this blessing love gives again into our arms.
Michael is a outgoing, loud, enjoyable fellow who loves playing guitar, bass, piano, and ukulele and forensicating. He will be attending Ripon College in the fall and will be studying Psychology with a minor in Communication. He's an avid Airborne Toxic Event fan and is in the process of writing 3 full length novels (brainstorming is definietly a process). He has enjoyed the poem "After Making Love, We Hear Footsteps" but was discouraged at the little sex that was involved. The title is rather misleading.