Looking Up

Twice today I do it,
both times to pleasure.

Early on, reading
rascal poet Billy Collins
in our sunny study’s
worn, blue chair,
I come upon fealty.

Making my way
to the sturdy music stand
weighted down with Webster,
always opened to o,
I look it up, find it
nesting between Fe and Fear,
its meaning loyalty.

Later, at the other end of the day
I sit on our futon’s soft edge,
swaddle dry, winter hands
in lotion the color of cream.
Then, looking up,
my eyes take in the doorway
see your broad, familiar form
suddenly filling it.

The next moment you
move towards me, as you have
a thousand times before,
ready to take the bottle of lotion
from my newly softened hands,
ready to begin night’s
hushed, happy connection,
a version of fealty filling
limbs, breath, eyes, a room.