I promise what they all promise,
those makers of promises—
to love, and, because it’s not these days
politic to say obey, to offer 
instead a modest agreement 
to not refuse to take the refuse out
or deliver a cup of coffee
to the morning bed. I promise
to love you until all talk between us
turns to grunt and sigh and barter,
until one of us thrashes all night
slugging the senseless pillow 
until dawn. For now, let us
agree which lights to leave lit, 
who will water which plants, who
dust when avoiding dusting 
becomes a hazard. And let us promise 
Sundays, when we’ll sleep till noon 
and, later, each of us on our separate phones, 
read snippets of the world’s 
catastrophes and complaints.
Then maybe croissants, some coffee,
the sunlight leaning on its elbows 
at the windowsill, studying our expressions, 
wondering how we survive each other, 
while the soundtrack shifts from your song
to mine—cello to power-chord—and back,
then a song we both tolerate though neither
with any enthusiasm. All this I promise— 
as vague a promise as can qualify 
as promise, but a promise I’d make no other.
At least not now. At least not here.

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Image: “menu” by Shane Allison