Front Page

There's a newspaper on the sidetable.
We don't read it. Instead, we laugh.
You pass me the video-game controller
and I drop off a cliff, step into enemy fire,
dance with a koopa, trap myself between
two kinds of death and find a third,
and then settle down to kill the Big Bad.

Someone shared me a YouTube link
of all that's wrong with the world; a
horrible tragedy that we really should
know about. I read the headline and
close it. And then you start slicing tofu
while I hug you from behind, keeping
my fingers clear of your knife, with
the ground pork sitting nearby your
only cutting board (I must get you
another one.)

It's just that the good things are so small-seeming
and never make the front page, or
get on the news. So I can't read the
news without crying, and when you're
with me I feel like smiling, so I'm afraid
that if I ruin that smile by reading news
I'll become accustomed to crying instead;
there is so much good in the world, that
I think it should be my headline, my day's
front page--
starting with you.

I can read the rest later.