I like slow dancing with you in the kitchen
where we cling to each other while Leon Russell
sings his regrets. He should have brought her roses.
I like the butterfly weed you gather from the ditch
and the lilacs you planted by the creek.
Bring me those. Keep wearing the coat you don’t need
just so you can offer it when I shiver. Kiss me
on the top of my head when you get home.
If you tell me the lasagna was even better on day two
or your work friends noticed the bread I baked,
lunch I make for you will remain love’s metaphor.
I did little to earn a man who holds my hand
while we sleep. Only luck kept us married
until this miracle of sobriety. Paris, France?
No, thank you. Take me instead to the cinema to watch
a tragic love story. I will let you pick me up at the door.
Comments
Post a Comment