Her laptop sits upon my pillow,

poems covering my side of our bed.

 

Jazz escapes her headset as I lean 

in for a quick peck on my cheek.

 

Her eyes return to her writings 

as I exit unmissed to the den.

 

This same scene for six months of 

nights, falling asleep on the couch.

 

I hold myself to blame. I begged

her to come, read for open mike 

 

and she loved it. Her first reading 

wowed the audience, she read again, 

 

became a regular, joined a writers

critique group, found her voice,

 

was asked to be the featured reader, 

wrote more, read more, published, 

 

now working on her second collection,

of poems covering my side of our bed.