My seven year old self
home on a sick day
PB and J on white bread
with cheddar cheese
with a glass of milk
to wash away the misery
mom and i watching Nixon
on TV, singing the watergate
blues
he later said, he'd do the dirty deed
again, if he had to....
Daddy was off at work
making a living, trying
to make love with mama
working, too
But a free spirit's a free spirit
and so, the sky fell
sometimes, i think of the days
before poetry, before i started
to read and think
when youth was my asylum from
reality and Dr. Seuss and Curious
George, gave me mirth with their
hijinks....
like soft strains of debussy
she walks among the cows
timeless, as a summer morning
the girlish body, with some boy in it
graceful as satie, she strolls
paris, not as a traveler, but as a
native, who's city suits her
like her skin
ravel, rises from within her soul
the tall woman, as much a delicacy
as the meats and cheeses, lining
the tables of montmartre
she styles her hair like lady brett
maybe a guy will see her, and be inspired
to immortalize her in verse
maybe she will take his hand
as they slowly, stroll along the
seine
as notre dame blesses their dreams