We have our spot.

Each night she waits for my

“Say-up,” flying weightless

Into a clump of soft hair

Warming my feet up on the couch.

Slipping into the comfort of

Old marrieds, content with

Nearness and routine.

I reach down and squeeze her foot

In our secret shake. She eyes me,

flops over, sighs.

God is nigh.

—JANICE A. FARRINGER, “Comfort Zone”