Ahem. And Now, A Poem

I'm home from work again today, and while the drugs begin to take effect, let me celebrate Poetry Month by composing, on the fly, something that came to me as I was getting ready this morning, watching my beloved sleep. I hope it doesn't suck.

My Baby's Like a Furnace

My baby's like a furnace
sending out waves
great huge showers
of heat and light
wherever he is and
to who
whom
ever
he touches

My baby's like a furnace
as the kids faces turn pink and ruddy
warm and soft
when they see him
and yell 'Papa!"
and run toward him to touch
him
to perhaps run their fingers
their bodies
up against his warmth

My baby's like a furnace
pushing crazy comfort out
through the ductwork of
e-comm
into the blogdom
into the world
blanketing his houseguests
with
smiles and guffaws
and more than a little heat
in the hearts
and loins
of those that reach out
with their own ironworks of heat

My baby's like a furnace
His pilot light blooms
and
unconsciously
reaches out to find
my
pilot light
that little button
and push-starting it
until my furnace is more like
an
incinerator
next to his
raging bonfire
splashed with gasoline
and we throw off the covers
so the house won't burn down
and we gasp for air
more
more
air
for the fire to burn higher
thrust up skyward
even
h..i..g..h..e..r
until we disappear into
ashes
and raise up
phoenix-like
into
two
warm
furnaces
side by side
pilot lights flickering in sync
and silent

My baby's like a furnace
and I cannot wait
...
I cannot wait
to be near him tonight.