Lonely Tuesday, fan spinning slow stirring up small breezes,
a little tickle in the air, dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight.
White smoke twirling and curling joining in the dance
a minor key rendition, old time music of the spheres.
Time and place feel unattached to unbidden memory
but I recall precisely: June thirteenth, our new home.
I remember you said you like Tuesdays,
called them the week’s best kept secret.
Lounging in your sapphire silk robe biting into a red plum,
grinning as skin snapped, juice trickling down your chin.
I said I like Friday because it’s an end and a beginning,
week done, weekend a promise, an unspoiled surprise.
Such diurnal idylls make good stories of good times,
love and languor, a remembrance of romance without drama.
I recall another Tuesday, uneasy voices revealing other secrets,
front door slammed shut, footsteps fading out to the street.
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