The air is clinical in this
hotel room. No smells, no stains,

like the ones on the living room rug 
we left behind. The toilet 

won’t leak here. We set our own
thermostat. My wife flips

through channels on cable
as she waits for me to write

a new poem. When I get done,
I am going to go to the other room

and worship her like she deserves.
Then I will fall asleep, taking up

so little of this spacious bed,
her huddled in beside me.

And though I fear this anniversary
passing quickly, at least

we didn’t let it pass us by.

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