Paper is too pale for our sunsets
too silent for the morning stomp of smiling grandchildren
too cool for warm grass, or the sunny beach of sand castles
too clean for pesky spider shit or bottles on the lawn
or piling leaves or admiring persistent skirted echinacea
and words just sit there in rows
unable to define the daily gift of 4 pm
the empathy of we live this together:
our organ recitals and understandings
on so many shared tastes
except my choice of clothes (I’m almost never right).
So can I write this poem?
You really seem to think so
and always have, since I insisted I was Mr. Right.
So here we are
still moaning urgently in the shadows
by the yellow brick wall
still wanting to undress each other
in spite of the cooling evening
that does not fit on paper.