It’s
a bowl of rice, and mushroom chicken, marinated in sauce. Its chocolate chip
cookies,
vanilla ice cream, and pecans. It’s a steak with trimmings, a pile of onions,
and
A1 Sauce. It’s you a stream, with silver eyes, fiddling couch threads. It’s a
pillow
soft, for pillow talk, where eyes gloss. It’s a goose down spread, with pink
hearts,
for warming toes. It’s a loud voice, to prove a point, a sexy retreat. Its
silken flesh,
caramel
lotion, and body heat. It’s a massage, for a long day, to loathe a boss. We
live
with hunger, an intimate silence, to nibble fruits. It’s a night’s journey, a
touch of
therapy,
to pull at literature. Its inner strife, revealed in private, to carry this
treasure.
Its
squirrels and rabbits and geese featured on Geographic. It’s a hour to wrestle,
to
rustle
slowly, if only a dream. Its Cadillac coffee, and hazel nut cream, for a bowl
of
marshmallows.
You move like waves, to turn with precision, an art called seduction. It’s
brick,
an attitude, churned to cotton. It’s a heartbeat, to gaze quickly, to give a
nod.
Its
fruits and berries and chips and dip to worry for thighs. Its highs for lows,
and lows
for
highs, scribbling notes. We picture like portraits, featured in psyches, a
model for
perseverance.
Its anger to simmer, and bubbly tubs, and exotic oils. It’s more a vision,
a
chest of chi, as calm as candles. We color rain, with hopes and dreams, and
cosmic
art.
It’s more for beaches, and parks, plus the Getty. Its small gestures, and
candid camera,
to feel embarrassed.
We paint it love, to sit in stillness, chanting love.
