When I get home
things will be the same.
I haven't changed.

The sling  
comes off the day
I get on the plane.

I'll be able 
to cut the grass,
rake the leaves,

shovel the snow,
all the stuff I did before.
And every morning

in summer, fall,
winter and spring, 
when we wake up, 

I'll draw rosettes
with the tip 
of my tongue

on your nipples,
await your orders to 
bivouac elsewhere.

Nothing has changed.
I'm feeling fine. 
We'll cleave again.

-- Donal Mahoney