Imagining a Life with Her

She tells me she wants to be a baker,
that it’s been her dream since she was young.
I taste the cakes she’s prepared
and I’ll admit – she is good.
Her dream is to open a shop
and delight the city’s sweet-seekers.

I taste my new acquaintance’s sugary confection
and imagine a life with her…

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Wake in the late morning
to the smell of baking.
Roll over, and gather the pages from last night
scribbled on loose notebook paper.
Take them to the sun room, to read over.
She walks in, with a fragrant tray
still hot from the oven.
A kiss on the cheek turns my face to her.
Her smile is bright as morning sun.
“How’s the book coming, sweetie?”
she says. She lifts the steaming tray of goodies.
“Here, try one. I want to know what you think?”

“Sure,” I say, taking a cookie
and holding up the pages,
“as long as you don’t mind some reading.”

I eat the cookie
but she doesn’t read my pages
until we finish making love
and brew some coffee.

She tells me she’s an artist.
She’s always wanted to illustrate children’s books.
Asks me if, maybe someday,
she could illustrate a book of mine.
I look at her smile, glowing in the light
of a blue, neon beer sign,
and think; Shit, why not?

I brain-storm ideas
for a modern children’s fiction classic,
and imagine a life with her…

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We wake begrudgingly, together,
late in the day, in our studio.
We kick aside the empty bottle of wine
and decide to paint our bodies
while the drunk still lingers.
Paint is smeared across our naked bodies
and we and roll over blank canvases
layed across the hardwood.
Nude, exhausted, I detach
and light the day’s first cigarette
and brew coffee.
Nude, she finishes her newest piece
with delicate brush-strokes,
as I watch her, and create poetry.
We stand together, nude,
admiring our new creation.
I read her the poetry I wrote,
and we crack another bottle of wine.

I imagine my life
together, with another.
For some reason,
the dream never manifests.
Damn life, damn reason,
damn the year, and
damn the season.
Maybe we could be happy
if we wait, if we work,
if we try, if we give up,
if we move,
if we just stay here.

The truth is
I’m tired to death.
And want you to be tired too.
You, the beautiful face
that peers at me through candle-light.
We could both go to bed together
with a bottle and a dream,
and sleep in late
for the rest of our lives.

BSB

 

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Last Call’s Final, Parting Gut-punch

edvardmunch-jealousyi1896the mirror behind the bottles behind the bar
offer a view of your girl’s face as she endures your embrace
and keeps an eye on me, waiting for a time when he will die
of exhaustion, or shame, or by her hand
and we can be together

toss your hair, dance for me
care not for his suit, his hair
his car waiting in the parking lot

you prefer the chase
the danger
and strange, new pleasure

suit yourself for now, as you will
you will never know, nor will I
and together we shall be
unfamiliar, unaquainted, forever

BSB

edvard-munch-jealousy-3

The Artist’s Winter

urban-13-500x333dust covers every key on the piano
spiders have taken over the easel
no one creates here anymore

rain pattering window’s glass
even on a sunny day
the doors stay closed

no one comes to knock or call
newspapers stacked outside the door
recall how long it has been thus

a cat wanders this floor’s hallway
nobody seems to know where it lives
suspiscions grow it’s been locked out

everyone waits for a dull thud
then the smell in coming days
denoting the prescence of death

I myself, try to believe
the newspapers will disappear
the door will open

typewriter-with-cobwebsthe cat will come home
the cobwebs will be swept
the dust will lift

the rain will stop
the music will start
writer’s block will end

and beauty
will be created
again

BSB