Ode to the timer on your living-room lamp
 
The timer clicks and the light shines,
surprising you and me
in the shadows of early evening.

We’ve been talking for hours,
lost in the give and take
of speculation and opinion,
of debate and deliberation,
considering how to teach
and encourage imagination.
You’ve spoken with passion,
and I’ve spoken with passion,
and we’ve both played apologist
in order to more fully understand.

The world outside has continued,
unnoticed, slipping from day to dusk,
until the electric click
and sudden illumination.

Now it’s time to turn
to evening endeavors—
a bite to eat, recalling
the day’s pleasures,
the poem you’d like to read,
the song I’d like to sing,
the podcast we can listen to
together—a fresh procession
of uncounted hours
leading to preparing for bed,
to candlelight,
to unhurried embrace,
until we finally drift
to the kitchen for water.

Then the timer clicks off
and we’re drenched in darkness,
except for the light
of the microwave clock,
recalling the world of hours
and confirming that it is,
in fact,
three o’clock in the morning.