He walks into a room.
The room is dark and smoky.
There is slow jazz playing.
It is a live show.
The woman, she's already there.
The writer types to the same music but not there.
Again the room is dark and smoky.
This is her own little live show.
The man, he'll be there.
He gets off work, a job he had to take.
If only to keep the truck running.
A long drive home in the middle of the night.
He turns on the music, different.
Someone whispers in her ear.
A low breathy voice.
He sleeps until an arm slaps his face.
She even struggles in her sleep.
One a m, then two, maybe three since it's a weekend.
Though it'd be nice to go play golf.
She is getting ready for the world.
A full house, lots of play.
Clean sheets. Beds made.
We'll do this for lunch.
That for dinner.
Breakfast, always the same.
He prepares to see his child, all grown up.
That's the story anyway.
It seems that she has changed.
But of course she has.
It will always be that way, change.
Another day at work.
This is as good as it can get.
Until he gets there.
He'll be there.
I am grateful today to take a couple of days off, to go see a baby who is belly laughing now. I will think of you in the early morning and wonder if I should write. But I won't. I'll save whatever it is I find and I'll bring it back to you. I guess what I'm saying is you'll get a souvenir. Otherwise, may you see at least one really crazy miracle this weekend. I know you will.