Five o’clock and
a weak gray dawn
peers through drapes
drawn against morning
slivers of mottled light
reveal glimpses of a tired smile
trying to hide
the intense gaze that lets me know
you are thinking too much . . .
You hold my eyes with yours
as long as I can bear
I believe that you can
see inside my dark soul
sometimes
and afraid you already know too much
I look up and across
to the print of wildflowers,
an impressionist meadow,
hanging on the wall opposite the bed
its colors blurred
by the lateness of the hour
and the lack of lamp light.
My eyes cast down to the half empty glasses,
warm champagne on the only bedside table,
the bubbles long departed
from the water glasses used to hold them.
I return to you and watch,
experiencing well placed kisses
down to my throat,
touching on that spot even you
could not know about,
the place that makes me shudder and tingle
I say nothing but smile and bite my lip,
watching you inspect the
cotton fabric of my black turtleneck
as your hand slides underneath to touch my skin.
-- --
to make another deadline
your hand in mine
we walk three minutes east
to this garden of commons
with its swan filled waters and
the apparent absence of frogs.
We sit on a bench
previously inhabited by lovers and fools
and watch girls dance under
the arms of their circle
surely invoking some goddess
by their youthful missteps.
And I see you again,
at the edge of my glance
that smile I have come to
recognize so easily
and we walk past the dogs and
the children at play
three minutes east
only three minutes east
into an eternal day.
