She likes to travel, leaves him alone for days at home;
and he, reclusive, easily a hermit, gladly stays at home.
She likes to wake to the sound of surf and a foggy sea,
imagines him waking up in the mountain greys at home.
Fog is fog, he tells her on the phone; it all burns off—
but when she leaves he finds himself in a haze at home.
He makes the bed and cooks the meals. He’s got his flutes
and drums and all the other things he plays at home.
Still, he hopes he remains Her Beloved Poet, immersed
in words and searching for the perfect phrase. At home.
You can read more about the Ghazal form HERE.