He begged her to just/
imagine that she is the/
stuff dreams are made of.
AND
If his dreams mattered,/
then she was and is that stuff/
dream girls grow out of.
He begged her to just/
imagine that she is the/
stuff dreams are made of.
AND
If his dreams mattered,/
then she was and is that stuff/
dream girls grow out of.
She stood, beautiful,/
not knowing she was. He could/
just repeat the truth.
Are you capable/
of loving truly? Always?/
Then you deserve it.
When I’m quiet, I/
could be hurting, or maybe/
blissfully happy.
If I don’t write poems/
for her, that don’t mean nothin’/
‘ceptin’ that I’m tired.
Some tell us to quit. /
They ask, like Tina: “What’s sex /
got to do with it?”‘
Who am I looking for?
A woman who is enthusiastically passionate,
who can embrace me
as I embrace her
and the world.
Someone who can stand
at sunrise
with tears,
and arms outstretched,
to welcome the new day.
A woman who will laugh with me
as we clap our hands
with child-like glee
watching dandelion parachutes
glide away on a gentle,
warm,
summer breeze.
Someone who will discover
lost treasures
of bakery
or burnt-end barbecue
or Thai
or spaghetti
or spumoni.
Someone who will grasp
the silence
and power
of breathing together;
who isn’t afraid to throw
caution
to the 70 mph wind,
and her hands
in the air
as we rock,
topless,
the black top
to the Four Tops
or the Four Seasons.
She said she wants to go slow/
I am okay with that, and so
I will take my time./
and write a few lines
until she is ready to go!
*(OR: until she is ready fo mo!)
To discover you/
aren’t viewed how you think you are/
can make you sick quick.