Target Date

It was Sunday, soft and slow,
Clouds like cotton, time on low.
She smiled and said, “Our date today,”
Just Target runs, not cabernet.

I laughed it off, “A date? Come on,”
But deep inside, I felt that song—
The one that plays when we’re alone,
No phones, no noise, just time we own.

A cart between us, aisles wide,
Debating meat and snacks and Tide.
But her hand brushed mine near aisle three,
And suddenly, it was just we.

She lit up over cereal boxes,
And I just watched her, sly and foxish.
Not dressed up fine, no heels, no lace—
Just sweats and hat across her face.

I wanted more—just one more lap,
Not for deals, or gifts to wrap.
But for that feeling, calm and bright,
That somehow, here, the world feels right.

I played it cool, I stayed on task,
But in my heart, I longed to ask:
“Can this date stretch a little long?
With you, even errands feel like song.”

We left with bags and fizzy sodas,
And hearts still warm like sunlit quotas—
From one small trip, so unrefined,
But full of love and quiet time.

So now I wait for Sundays slow,
For her small smile, that secret glow.
And next time when she calls it fate,
I’ll say it loud: “Yeah, I’m ready for our date.”

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.