Creatures of Comfort

The barista’s expression remained blank,

“Have a wonderful morning” made no crack.

The prickliness of apathy is rough,

but the latte she made is warm and smooth,

even with chai spice it tastes creamy soft,

my lips linger over the cup’s rimmed edge.

*

An hour ago I tugged at my quilt’s edge

to pull it taught over the fleece blanket,

my fingertips admiring the softness,

bathing in the light pouring from a crack

between the curtains, all the creases smoothed

like still waters before storms churn them rough.

*

And yesterday, Caroline took my rough

and chipped nails in her hands, filing edges

until they were nicely rounded and smooth,

applying bold color to slates wiped blank

pools of maroon, pristine until they crack

but for now hard and strong, yet sleekly soft.

*

We’re drawn to them, aren’t we? Things that are soft.

Always sanding away what feels too rough,

dulling the sharp, and filling in the cracks,

avoiding abrasive and sharp edges.

Write words that soothe or just leave the page blank.

No wrinkles or tangles, please, only smooth.

*

Like last night when I was angry, but smoothed

my words so you would hear them, my voice soft.

You insist, “Give it to me straight, point-blank.”

But that’s not what you want, straight is too rough

and too sharp, so I tried to keep the edge

out of my tone, but under strain I cracked.

*

I’m not perfectly polished, I have cracks,

jagged pieces that are too sharp to smooth

spaces I don’t fit, and harsh line edges

that can’t be blurred. And the places I’m soft

can produce fire when they’re handled roughly.

My permanent record is far from blank.

*

And yours isn’t blank. We have matching cracks.

We’re a little rough, but your kiss is smooth,

some words hard, some soft, here on comfort’s edge.