We vacationed with gravitas:
burning fires, passion near the
ice box machine, Mexican beaches,
and one long glorious night in
a cabin tucked in the woods
where our sighing chorus started
the coyotes

singing. But the best was when we got home,
our luggage
cuddled in the vestibule,
or the hallway, but it was a vestibule
to us
because it was OUR hallway,
where we threw off our vestments,
which were really
just our clothes
but they seemed like garments,
like raiment,
like habits sorely religious,
which is how we felt dropping them

one by one on the stairs:
white shirts, black bra, blue jeans,
red socks,
star-spangled underwear;
then we stood naked in our own bedroom, our bed
with its dark comfort(er),
our pillows that smelled like us, and
the cat watching us
from the windowseat, purring
just when he should,
complementing the street noise
and our music.