Who is This Man in my Bed?--Octopoem

I've been to the city to deliver my son's junk to his roommate so the son can fly back to school. It was a long day full of really bad drivers (saw two rollover accidents and a car chase lead by a brainless guy), a haboob that sandblasted the car, harrowing lane changes, long miles, and nail-biting near misses. But I am home now, so this poem will show up tomorrow instead of today for most people. It's an octopoem.

THE HUBS AND I

*My husband says ties should never be green. I don't know why, because grass, real grass without stickers and fire ant hills in it, makes me deliriously happy.
* I think he likes summer best, although the heat here makes it unbearable. I like winter best. It's when you can go outside without getting 3rd degree burns over the soles of your feet and on your hands if you touch a steering wheel.
*We both love finding a hidden treasure. The Hubs loves to find out-of-the-way places to explore. We've gone caving, into a kiva, to a hot springs, and to the tops of the mountains, to a huge gorge and the beach. The world is wide open like a giant clam.

*We both love a good thunderstorm. We love how the sage and creosote smell pummeled by the rain. We stomp in puddles until the water leaks down the street.
*Winter's when you can add clothing to get comfy. There's only so much you can take off in the summer and still be decent. Lon likes the heat. I like the snow.
*For some reason he sits at the kitchen table to kill things. I don't know why, since I made a point of liberating his homemade "desk" from the shadows. I love to read in bed.
*We like to watch Dr. Who, or did until the middle D bad-mouthed it into oblivion.
*He loves Reeses and Junior Mints and BLT's. I love another mint--ice cream and cheesecake and seafood alfredo from Olive Garden. We both waddle away from there wishing we'd started our doggy bag about fifteen minutes earlier.

© 2016 by H. Linn Murphy

If you should like to know more about octopoems, apply your finger to this word and you shall be instantly transported to a fount of poetic education.