Saturday Morning Shows Up

I am lis­ten­ing to old new music and it is end­less in me
It is Sat­ur­day and we are 200 miles from what mat­ters
And we are sleepy and you are like you were the first time
I saw you. You are, god­dam, you are really a beau­ti­ful per­son.
I know, you know, being a pho­tog­ra­pher and a con­nois­seur of beauty
and all,
And the water is slack­ing over the cur­tain and the plas­tic sound
of it
is the sound of
noth­ing mat­ters, that every­thing is squared away
that we are 25, 35, 35, 45 years old – who cares–
that it is all safe, that he is safe and we are here
both of those truths pro­tect the other, grow the other to better-ness
and the water rolls down the plas­tic cur­tain on this saturday

and you roll half on to a dream, half on to me or noth­ing
and you are as beau­ti­ful as I have ever known, you
as beau­ti­ful as just you are

and the water is wast­ing away and the vol­ume whiles away in to the drain
like how I love you and him, our boy, and how it whiles through me, pre­cious and
end­less, like the span between
9 and 915 on a sat­ur­day, away, not at home, when it is
just you and me and we mar­vel at what life has rolled our way,
like we are the pins and the ball rolls to us and strikes us
and the ball is love
and you and I are bowled, seri­ously,
over.