" Love, Labors Tossed"
Oh, if the next plays violin
I'll request a bit of Brandenburg with breakfast.
She'll cook as I fix eggs and toast,
watch the way her hair moves
southwest of her smile.
Ah, a painter. She'll cut grass and trees,
angles and shade. I'll mow the lawn,
and see her move back from the canvass,
a hand on one olive-tinted hip. She will paint
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge if asked.
Oh my, a lover that does nothing but love?
We will be artless in our nakedness?
Chores ignored? We'll rise all day,
two new moons wanting to be suns. Four feet
tangled in bedspread. Our skin, singing.
© 2003 Dan Tompsett
|
|
