Living the Dream

We used to get up in the middle of the night,
make grilled cheese toast, start the fire
in the old fireplace, and write poems to each other.
Then, you would brush the crumbs from your hands,
pick up the guitar, and put music to the words.

Sometimes a cheesy line would send us into gales
of laughter. Sometimes the song was so powerful
that we would look at each other and the Swiss moon
turned her face from us.  Green with envy, the blue
sky could hold no contest to how sad some tunes were.

At times, both being fond of the smell of oil paint,
we would set up the easels, side by side, push
brush or cloth, and sometimes bodies, against
the canvas, smearing ochre and vermilion
on each other and went about for days
looking like we had been to some sacred tribal event.

Once we loved sharp, the camembert, peel
of waxy skin to dip into creamy texture
and offer the tip of a tangy  finger to each other.
These days, I am lactose intolerant.  Perhaps
we overdosed on evenings and cheese.

Tags: Beloved Be, Poems //