“Is this what we’ll be like in twenty years?”

A hint of sarcastic laughter sneaks through
your voice as you mock our Saturday night
of quiet conversation
over brimming cups of tea.
The secondhand table wobbles a little,
and the spots that last year’s tenants left
on the carpet match the breakfast
still stuck to the tablecloth
(at least there’s now a tablecloth).
The dishwasher hums between discussions 
of the fall of man and the filioque, 
a feather of steam curling up around
your face, like sweet sticky incense prayed up to heaven 
on the tail of a tenor’s vibrato.

“I hope so.”