Isn’t Much of a Poem

He lies awake in bed,

breathing slowly.

I only smile at him

with sincere.

"Read me a book, dear."

My fingers pick a book.

Aphrodite.

"Sure." He smiles.

I read, he stops me.

"Pass me those combat boots."

Slowly I reach,

accidentally my tattoo shows.

Little birds are revealed.

"You know, Dorothy. These boots tell a story."

He told me he stormed the beaches of Normandy.

Fighting for us.

The lights flicker, but we don't mind.

He's got boots to show, and a good story to tell.