She always listens to Coldplay on Mon-
days. We drive down to the beach, buy a Snow
Cone, and watch the sun set over the marshes.
Sometimes we talk about the sonnets; 18,
116, and 52. She thinks
They were written about that dude, I think
there is nothing else I’d rather do.
The summer night breeze bristles her shoulders,
and I pass her my favorite sweater.
Mondays are perfect, despite the weather.