Pre Game Warm Up
I know instinctively
the seconds between that moment
when our infant toddles
at the top of the stair
and my arms reach out to grab him.
I can calculate how many minutes
of rest there is between loads of laundry,
giving the kids a bath,
and cutting the carrots for supper.
Only I know the passage of time.
No need to count it for me.
But my husband traveling
in a couch time warp
throws off the laws of physics
when the minutes left in the game
clearly marked in intervals
of decreasing seconds,
has morphed into a half hour
distorted by breasted commercials
and bottles of domestic beer.
Time stands still
as our eyes connect
with my wordless stare
that threatens to end his game.