He writes in Pooh-speak for me

Did someone treat you bad, honey
did someone treat you mean?
tell you you were hard to put up with
after your ten-hour day?

I'm sorry for any part I played
ragged with my own workday fatigue,
edgy from my own family spat,
I should have known,
when you floated us away from our unfocused, one-way
sexspeak
that you craved simplicity,
to speak, perchance, to dream.

Not the end of the world, surely,
these bumpy interactions we all wade through
at the end of the day,
but I have just now moved my copy of Pooh
to the shelf behind my desk
so that, in the future,
when I sense you seeking comfort and care
I can reach behind me,
take down the faded, cracked volume
cup your head in the hollow of my shoulder,
and drone on to you about Kellys and bees,
Kellys and bees,
Kellys and bees.