08:30—your *ding*,
      made the Sylvan room stand up straighter.

You laughing about Elbow Room
    and the stranger who swore I look like Stephen King—

    (guess I’m writing stories after all?)

I set up shop at Irby’s,
            laptop open,
        patience on tap,
letting the day preheat.

2:00 p.m.—your schedule arrives:
                     I get Coal.

Which is really to say…
      I get you, by proxy and paw.

He’ll supervise me like he does,
      and I’ll pretend not to be trained.

Somewhere after errands,
          the clock turns flexible:
          trivia if the night winks,
          maybe a surprise DJ set,
          maybe a short walk that takes the long way,
          maybe Sylvan, two blocks of hand-holding…

          our second heartbeat finding its refrain.

Call it Possible O’Clock.

The hour where every plan wears soft shoes,
         where “maybe” is the magic word
           and “why not” is the door that knows us.

I’ve saved our table—
     one chair for you,
     one for me,

     floor space clearly marked “Coal’s Office.”

The bartender knows to keep it unhurried.

The air knows to lower its voice when you arrive.

I’m a little dizzy, (okay, a lot)
    the good kind—
    the kind that says tonight could be anything…

    five right answers in a row,
        a song we didn’t expect,
 a quiet that fits us perfectly.

If the evening turns left,
        I’ll turn with it.

If it heads straight to Sylvan,
          I’ll match your pace.

If it decides we needed only a hug
   and a look that lasts an extra beat—

   that counts, too. (after all, hugs are plans in disguise)

Possible O’Clock means this:

I’m ready for yes in all its sizes,

From “stay for one”
  to “stay for a while”

From DJ lights
  to the lamp by the bed

From Coal’s nod
  to your smile…

I’ve already set the porch light in my chest.

I’m waiting exactly where “anything” begins.