Not the Brownings

Why won't I write you a love song?
Because it's silly to,
To your husband.

To shared meals
And preferred sides of the bed
And favourite sit coms
And what lies ahead....

After those silly Brownings,
Who writes love songs
After the vows?

Who remembers what's at the root
Of the sleepy morning smiles,

Who writes to weekends of lazy loafing
And quickly brushing before a kiss
And sucking in your stomach
Though you have nothing left to hide.

Nobody writes love songs
About the potted plant
That has bloomed after the rains
And a daughter running around,
Nutty and derailed.

A love song in the kitchen
A love song for the laundry basket
A love song to the reading lamp
A love song to a favourite newspaper columnist.

These are not things you write love songs to.
These are merely the places where love lives.
Its home address, so to speak,
Where it hangs up its fineries,
Stretches back and closes its eyes,
And sometimes, goes to sleep.