Wednesday didn’t ask to become a monument.

No fireworks, no big swing.

Just Irby’s patio
     after your coworker outing,
     a little room
     at the edge of the night,

     enough us
     to keep the thread warm
     without making the evening

     carry more than it had.

That counts.

Quietly, but it counts.

Now it’s Thursday,
    one hour from Pricci.

Reservation made,
            because sometimes
            hope needs a table

            before it knows what to do with its hands.

I’m trying
    not to stare at the clock
    like a man
    who can make time behave

    through posture alone.

I’m trying
    not to name the night too loudly

    _before_ it gets here.

Real date
     is a dangerous phrase
     when the door is still closed.

So I’ll leave it smaller.

Thursday, pending.

Pricci, waiting.

Me,
   almost calm,
   almost dressed,
   absolutely not fooling anybody

   who knows where to look.

The thing hasn’t arrived yet.

Good—
     let it arrive,
     let the reservation hold,
     let the hour
         do its little impossible job
            of becoming the next hour

     without me grabbing it by the collar.

No pressure.

Just Thursday,
     a table,
     your name glowing
     somewhere in the middle
     of my nervous system,

     and the exact right amount

                      of almost.