The man I kissed on the train
was a Michelin star chef from Ireland.
We talked scallops on the way to Paris
and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Was this scene partly real or dreamed?
After I lost my car in the parking lot,
I invented a serial killer
to give the story just the
right amount of suspense
Believe me. even James Purefoy belonged in that
bar fight at Whiskey River, but
I still can’t decide if he should
speak with a British or American accent.
And when exactly should he notices me
and my long legs, because I’m 5’7 in this tale.
But sometimes I’m stuck in the world of what is
helpless to the sufficient things.
5’2 and looking at the magnolia tree in my backyard.
It’s beautiful at dusk, all tact and fact in a serene spot.
What could be better?
What could be worst?
I sigh as I sip my tea.
I can’t muster up the inclination to make it bend or sway.