Slates, Skates, and Us
Up before dawn,
Boulder at forty degrees—
the kind of cold that persuades your lungs
to be honest.
Feet find a faster rhythm—
grass still wet,
cold air sharp in the throat…
when the sky cracks a thin smile.
Almost time to place your “Good morning, Mari,”
exactly where the day will hear it.
Yesterday tilted my way.
You kept the banter fair—
your grumbles,
my soft-pedaled grin—
and somehow the thread between us
stayed warmer than any win.
There was heavier weather, too—
your grandma’s breath shortening,
the family pulling toward St. Louis.
If you go,
I’ll cover the home front—
Coal briefed,
porch light on,
every small kindness standing at attention.
Today the calendar swaps cleats for blades.
Puck drop season.
You in Blues blue,
me divided between Pens and Stars—
different sweaters,
same couch-in-our-heads.
Let the ice make a fresh sound of October…
I’ll learn your chants,
you can borrow mine.
Elsewhere, a few old rivals
try to untangle their knots,
and the afternoon will do
what afternoons do—
meetings,
messages,
a window that keeps
forgetting to close.
May it all distract just enough.
Last night I missed you
past the point of pretense—
nine p.m.,
bargaining with sleep
just to dream you closer.
You answered with a smile I could hear:
“I’ve been daydreaming about you all day.”
Touché received.
Daydreams count. So do the ones after lights out.
So here’s the shape of it—
slates to keep us occupied,
skates to start the song of winter,
and us—threaded through both—
sending little proofs across the miles
until miles stop showing off.
If you need me, say when.
I’ll say where and go.
Until then,
I’ll run the cold into cooperation,
leave a voice on your morning,
and meet you—shift by shift—
wherever the day decides to open.
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