Foot of the Bed

What a gal, becoming my best pal.
Thought by now she’d be throwing in the towel,
but that’s not her style.
She’s what Cat Stevens calls a Hard Headed Woman,
and I bet she gets it from her sisters, or her mother.
How I love waking up with her when the Morning Has Broken.
She’s puttin’ on a show at the foot of the bed,
and I wonder, does she know what’s going on in my head
as she’s getting dressed.
She’s just doing what she does,
just because it’s getting late,
but I have nowhere else to be today.
What do I say? Nothing.
Her reflection ignores my affection.
Too proud for beggin’ for sex when she just checks her hair and complexion,
I’m playing dead.
And she’s still putting on the show at the foot of the bed
and doesn’t even know what’s going on in my head
as she’s getting dressed.
She’s just doing what she does,
just because it’s getting late,
but I have nowhere else to be today.
What do I say?
Do I turn my head, watch TV, make pretend that I don’t see
what she’s pulling up around her knees,
over her head, and through her sleeves.
My compliments, she disagrees.
I shake my head, but I am pleased
as she performs another tease in reverse,
unknowingly, that it was for me.