Mindy leans at me with wide blue eyes,
sparkling stars above a steaming cup
of Bailey’s and Vanilla Bean.
Mindy always has a question,
really meant for God.
Expecting me to answer her,
mystified and energized
in canyon deep philosophy.
Why do lovers lock embraced
in fear and desperation
fighting odds against a world,
fighting odds against a universe?
My buttered bowl of grits
stare back at me.
Lump-less and textured white;
because they know they’ll never win.
Her fingers rub her gloss red lips
hungry and seductive.
Listens, and seems satisfied enough,
to pass the salt.
The twisted wreckage of your dreams
haunts all my waking hours.
I pick up my weary baggage
and silently walk toward the end
of a drought worn stream.
Your voice is flat and hollow
no longer does your music move me
but in the deathly dusk of the fallen sun
your tears shine in a sparkle of diamonds.
It sits staring at me.
Sprawling, cozy and secure
in its own private space
on my cushy black leather couch.
I won’t dare touch it.
tan and tailored
like Bogart, Sherlock Holmes or Columbo
well, maybe not Columbo.
They all wore one
every cloak and dagger
the British had to have them.
All that damn rain
and a good place to hide a gun
during a war.
This one is Marcy’s.
No wrinkles, no stains
only the scent of her exotic cologne
from a small shop in Paris
so one of a kind.
Strands of her long, shining blonde curls cling
beaming her surrendering smile
and squeaky siren laugh.
Her petite sexy body
is a firecracker in July
kindled to burn the passion
to the tips of your fingers
moving rapid fire through your body
and charring to the core.
Sadly, she won’t return for it.
She is like that, Marcy.
Always gets everything she wants.
A first time, good time, every time
graciously letting everything fall behind her
as if she had a royal consort on her heels
every minute of every day
picking up all of her discarded victories
then suddenly, as always
transformed to total failures.
Not me, though
but her overcoat, for sure.
Her soft hands
warmly knead my flour
a precious cargo
booming to land another flawless mission.
To Paris on her smell.
He doesn’t feel the final rivet snap
shielding the butt tip of his cockpit
as it rips apart
on his final approach
to her runway.
He smells the Paris of her hands baking.
You have always been a movie to me
knowing I could never touch you.
Now you sit and stare at me
from the other side of a bottle
on this table here between us.
I feel as if the magic is missing
you are not the star I dreamed of.
Once you were my shining light
in a dreaming heaven
of a momentary wish.
Now I see what I am left with
is not what I had hoped for.
And I see what I am watching
is not what I enjoyed.
You have always been a movie to me,
and now my life plays in reverse.
I never could quite touch you
and now I know.
I’ve touched too much.