I still say Hibiscus tea
is one of the more
romantic varieties
but you insist it needs
lemongrass added;
too bitter on it's own,
you won't stand for it.

Swirling invisible pencil
tracings on the cracks and
seams of this table,
you hum a tune conjured
on the fly and I turn
a weary eye to the sky,
the gray mass supplying
fullness to my cheeks.
I catch you glancing at

me, asking what I'm smiling
at, or for - one of the two and
I start a tangent on the
depth of Chaucer and the
ingenuity of Does It Offend You,
Yeah? then backtrack, say
I don't know a thing about
Chaucer; saying his name makes
me seem dapper, though I do
confess my love of

Vivaldi and with the same
breath, express envy for his
magnificent Autumn, wishing
it could be one movement longer.
This lazy Autumn gray sky
astounds my senses; dull is
too inadequate a word,
insensible. Bliss seeps this quiet
afternoon, bluejays fly between
the Pines and your hand delineates a

fine line on mine; overtime we'll
tire of this simplicity
my friends tell me, the journals, the
professional love doctors, and
especially the women, flirty
and curvaceous, touchy, never
finding clothes that fit just right.

  I’ve oft been accused of
  being in the unhealthy
  habit of attempting to
  prove someone entirely wrong
  almost all the time.

A drop of rain hits
our windowpane
as the sky winks at me
while I sip my tea watching
your grimace re-appear
for my lack of lemongrass.