cause of my caught breath,
of actual fleet but total stoppage of continuous
thought, you seem to know.
To my left, on my—your—servant dining table,
you catch and show sunlight
in your mute way, like church,
or the pale linens of some swank spa.
Your accomplices on my right,
three tall, erect orange cactus blossoms, beckon
my front window, miming you
with their slow-mo dapple-
dance. Thanks and praise, dear.
#1 of 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Writing Month, April 2017