Linger

It's Friday, and the days before
are fading, bleeding,
into the background.
I'm peeling jumbo shrimp at the kitchen sink,
listening to John Lennon,
and he sings, he speaks.
He prophecies.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
We are both old enough
to see the lie - and yet...
you sneak in behind me,
slip your arounds around my waist,
lean in, and ask,
"wanna dance?"
And we do.
Clumsily, but holding on tight,
the smell of the sea in the air,
and you, shirtless, in sagging Levi's,
smelling like workdays and honeysuckle.
It's just a moment, but still,
it's everything,
a perfect circle,
a beautifully, orchestrated two-step,
in our broken kitchen,
with the sagging, popcorn-speckled ceiling,
and plump, jumbo shrimp,
in the sink.
Resting.