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SWEET CYCLES |
A long time ago
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I said to a girl, |
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“Loving you |
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is like slipping into |
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my favorite jeans |
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fresh out of the dryer |
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on a cold fall morning.” |
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It was |
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that easy; |
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that comfortable. |
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Our living room |
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was second hand, |
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patio furniture and |
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milk crates with books |
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spilling into corners below |
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crank-louvered windows |
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with breeze playing chimes. |
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It was |
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that simple; |
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that appealing. |
But I left that girl
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in the winter, |
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persuaded by |
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a love on high |
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that offered abundant wealth, |
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travel to far away lands |
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and promised for evers. |
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It was |
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that grand; |
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that marvelous. |
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And my new life was |
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filled to overflowing |
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with every and any thing-- |
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feasting with lords and ladies, |
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in palatial halls of notoriety-- |
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and passions were spent |
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to extreme indulgence. |
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It was |
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that fantastic; |
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that unbelievable. |
But I left that girl
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seven springs later, |
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convinced by mid-life itch |
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the scratch was solitude |
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and a new beginning… |
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so, she got the penthouse, |
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and I got the dog. |
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It was |
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that fresh; |
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that renewing. |
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Just two rooms |
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three floors up stairs |
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with dusty windows over |
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an old brick alley where |
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great art is a crime |
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and in the dark I keep my own |
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time with the blinking neons. |
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It is |
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that changing; |
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that revitalizing. |
And as I reminisce
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through all the seasons |
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I've cycled and walk now, |
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I find I don't long for |
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the high society debuts |
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or even the simplicity of |
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an innocent love… |
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But I |
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sure miss |
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those old jeans. |
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Copyright ©2006 Sterling Whispers All rights reserved.
No written part of this publication may be reprinted without written permission of the author.
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