He will come find me when I've caught the wrong

bus on a Minnesotan January night.

He will whistle like a Disney sparrow.

He can impersonate Kermit the frog, but everyone else

is laced with McCartney.

He can teach the dog to rest its head on your palm—

hold out your hand, say face.

He will not always be nice,

but he will always be kind.

And his favorite animal will be an octopus.

And he'll have green eyes flecked with gold.

He will invent a hand-squeeze code—twice for yes,

once for no—when my tongue can't find the roof

of my mouth, caress the backs of my teeth.

He will send me photos of one-dollar books—I might like

to own and never read—at the Nicollet Goodwill.

He will make his righteous scrambled eggs for me at midnight.

He will be gentle with his scramble, the cat's post-op stitches,

the dog's nails.

And his name will mean "free."

And his humor a mudslide.

And his pupils will greet every dawn like a newborn Neptunian.

He will not be mine forever;

we will love each other anyway.