My moneyless lottery windfall,

Of having time to ponder,

Not

Just sitting

On the small stool

Of books that I've read,

But salivating

At those tombs

Not yet cracked open.

The packet of potential

That is summer's childhood fever,

The underground bunker system

Of a house fort.

In the pool

(Never poolside)

Shenanigans,

That plush mix

Of discomfort and pleasure,

When walking the beach's

Shallow Surf edge.

That hallowed moment,

Sweet intimacy,

With the curtains open

(because

When focused

On you

My love,

The outside world

With its dreary worries,

Remains that)      Outside.

Please,

Don't stop talking.

Your voice is

What

Runs

The clock.

And even with time

I must find fun in everything

– Fun,

That act of working,

Whilst

At play,

Asking nothing,

Just that

Flow with

The game.