don't speak of wrinkled bills and vending-machine meals
speak of sweet fruit and tantalizing artichoke hearts

don't speak of construction detours and 103° temperature
speak of villas and vineyards of a Tuscan autumn

don't speak of pink linoleum motels and daisy shower curtains
speak of brass patina and wrought iron along balconies

don't speak of Cleveland parking and the Cuyahoga River
speak of Paris light and love along the Seine

don't speak of leaky hot-water heaters on Friday nights
speak of oceans with azure horizons and uncapped waves

don't speak of two hours sleep and colic crying in your ear
speak of nights of northern lights and campfires

don't speak of cracked ribs and bruised fifty-year-old egos
speak of hot chocolate and mittened hugs

don't speak of stolen wallets and futile police reports
speak of red satin and redwood smoothed to touch

don't speak of burning holiday dinners and canned soup
speak of scents of smoky fire and craving desire

don't speak of partisan family and cross-country car trips
speak of eyes as deep as feeling ...yours and mine

don't speak of broken cars and two-thousand dollar engines
speak of times remembered warm with exhilaration

don't speak of losing children in strange cities
speak of moons and tides and pulling towards you

don't speak of cans of latex semi-gloss on wool oriental rugs
speak of dreams radiant with joyful saturation of hues

reality, though tangible and close
speaks nothing of the heart

© agoodguy2have 2011-02-19