It is even more fun than chess in the park
with friends, or ducking out of the office on a pretty
afternoon citing a Mets double-header, on a lark.
Paris. The Seventies. Drinking cheap wine in someone else’s city.
We arrive just in time for breakfast at Versailles,
swaddled in downy robes and floating away
from New York like bees in brandy, sans goodbyes —
(Didn’t they see that we could never stay?).
Wild affairs and sad intrigues, being voted
Most Promising Introvert. Pouring light
from stone — our bedroom alchemy toted
from room to room by cover of night.
And then, while my desk fan whirs in a ballet of sighs,
I think: this could all be happening, right before my very eyes.
One thought on “Sordid Daydream”