No white picket fence not even a garage fit perfectly with three cars,

but a small cottage in suburbia far enough away from the other houses

so we didn’t see their nakedness through the kitchen window above the sink

they couldn’t see ours through the bedroom window over looking rose bushes.

Pups, maybe huskies, running around the backyard under an ill worn swing set

across from a patio fit for a grill king the chickens cooing quietly in the side yard

even though I fought their meaning and ideas I couldn’t help smiling at the fresh

baby blue pink speckled things on the counter. You make pots of fresh coffee.

I’d push the glasses up the bridge of my nose just enough to see your smiling

lips before they caressed mine after setting steaming mugs down next to a blank

doc on a screen waiting patiently for the inspiration of a Sunday morning

to brace words, building a foundation of wood and cement with ink and paper.

Before bed you’d massage my neck, bent out of shape from bending too hard

I’d massage your mind with things filling mine until you lean over the comforter

to click the lamp bathing us in darkness, bringing the light of your eyes into focus

setting the night before us into a pristine vision of a life laid bare and open.

Daydreaming - MM