I love it when you play on Sunday,
when you cross your adorable
Hershey-kiss brown eyes
mid-song, at the precipice,
I love it when your raven black hair
swirls and tousles in a breeze,
and your body,
cloaked, encased, jeweled
in cadence and reverb,
sways and submits
to the frenzy of your performance.
I love it when I hear your song
on the radio, in bars, playlists,
amidst the shallow, fleeting parties,
where I’m tickled by pints of cheap IPA
and hopelessly strike flimsy small talk,
your creamy falsetto.
I love it when you sing,
when you croon and squint your eyes
like a child leaping into a pool
unfurling your curious, clumsy bangs,
brushing them with an artist’s sneer.
I love it when you play in the evening,
and the morning, swooning throughout
mundane Minneapolis, dismantling hoi polloi,
stiff business suits stained with half-assed lattes,
and stuffy cars fogged from March’s relentless frost.
your hands gouge the earth, reform your harvest
harness your finite work
sculpt your tender, misshapen vessel, as you cringe,
hammer through your growing pains
When your play on Sunday,
my least favorite day,
I don’t feel so bad.