Necessary Protocols Poem by Don McWilliams

Conversations end abruptly
like fingersnaps and
a world tangible
and inconvenient intrudes.

I like the other one,
imagined and entire
where you are the Sun,
I am never cold, never alone,
and it is never dark.

I talk to you in moments carved
from other moments
in which some damned thing
must always be accomplished.

I want the place where it is
always Sunday morning,
where the paper is thick and wine
before noon is required,
where if I forget to say a thing
there is and will always be tomorrow
and tomorrow.

I would slow time as one extends
a finger to check a spinning globe, or,
your head against my chest,
will every impediment
to inconsequence
while I tell you all the things
I have written in my notebook,

things I will tell you in days
or weeks to come
in a breathless hurry
before you park
and go into the next place
into which you will go,
after which I will think
damnit I should have said
this other thing oh well
next time,

the same notebook
into which
I now a little drunk
commit this for you
my lovesong.