Bless Your Heart
“Isn’t it time to write your poem?”
I nod, face a concentrated mask
my fingers resting on the keyboard.
You plop on the couch, first ripple
in the quiet and grab the remote
to unpause an endless football replay.
A scrum of players strives for first down
and you root in wild pantomime
for a game ended years ago.
A rising “Come on, man. Stay with him.”
sends me deeper into the house
in search of another oasis.