Aubade, Pleasant Street

Aubade, Pleasant Street

Awakened by the changing light, I press my face
into your neck, breathe deeply of last night, and get up
from your oversized couch. It’s too early and I need

to leave for work, my clothes in a pile with one shoe.
Fresh light leads me down the hallway to the shower.
Outside your bathroom window, the sun rises

over Lake Michigan, and a single bird does what I cannot.
When I come back out, the smell of coffee stops me,
but the bang of a dumpster lid in the alley below jars me

back to you, wrapped up in a blanket with two cups
on the end table, a cigarette lit, and your eyes asking
me what you won’t. But I dress, get down on one knee

and look under the couch for my one missing shoe,
then put it on. The awning below your open window
snaps in the wind, and other steps echo down the hall

until they end with the closing of the front door. You lean
into me, but all I can think about is how the sunrise
in my rear-view mirror will blind me as I drive away.

Paul Scot August

Originally Published in The Los Angeles Review – Volume 9, Spring 2011