I suppose I often think of love, that funky, defenseless tune.
I suppose I think of the few strands of runaway hair
That fall from the clip and sit waving in the air
Like such endearment.
Yep, I suppose I do dream of soft, silky legs
That taste like vanilla ice cream.
But then, I suppose everyone does.
Or am I the only one who dreams of breasts that curve
So downily down my cheek, with nipples that twirl so busily
Beneath my lips?
My Lord, I hope she loves me!
And I hope not to find myself wishing at the end,
Wishing I'd sent her flowers once a week and on her birthday
And whenever she was blue or tired,
Wishing I'd drawn a warm bath at midnight
Where we could love so deliciously, like turtledoves abloom.
(I know it's late. Maybe we should wait till tomorrow.
But there is no tomorrow.)
Was it God who said to slow down?
I know I should; she needs arousal, too.
Slow down. Don't rush. No need to hurry. She's warm and lovely,
And I suppose there's time for as many undulations as we want.
And of course, there's always time for ice cream and kissing.
Yep, my girl's full of love and loving too;
So faith is neither stranger nor neighbor, but a simple thing—
Quite beautiful, if you have to ask.
I suppose I often dream of love and how it fares
And when we'll dance to "Moonglow" and maybe some other Benny Goodman
And maybe some Bowie if she can dig it,
And sit by the fire in sweaters and slippers, with rain outside—
The trickles buffing our snuggling
With stars and gleams and all that jazz...
Then, a huge bowl of spaghetti we can eat with our hands,
Or maybe some milk and a great basket of cookies we can dunk and pop
Then, there's the blankets and the pillows and the VCR,
And maybe we could just eat in bed
And visit the memories of Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard
And Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant,
And the "American in Paris" Ballet hanging in the air—
Lush with the steps of Leslie Caron and Gene Kelly.
But what if she doesn't like the way I kiss?
We could certainly turn the movie off and find out...
I want so much to make her happy.
I can only find myself in her and her softness and her cookie dunking.
Then, there's some cuddling
And the sweet, soft miniature moan
Of a woman whose heart had leapt so fine with blood and fire,
Filling our world with peace.
And to and fro, she dreams herself to me,
In the heart of hearth and domesticity,
As she plays the heart's merry hopscotch, resting herself
On husband's breast.
And I, the husband, pet the tiny fragments of her figure
Where her hair drapes cozily across her shoulder—
A pastoral thing, like ice cream—
Dreamingly amazed we were for once, and again so soon.
I've got a sweet tooth for her—
Where the smiling skin of her neck warms the brushing of my fingers' tips
And within which her slightly sliding moan
Slips beautifully from her being,
And her heart, with such tender palpitations as it does so,
Grooving with the sound of Frank Sinatra
Or, albeit some other crooning cause for gusto,
Something just as yummy.
But who really cares?
With stomachs full of cookies.
And our fragile moments flutter home with every second's murmur...
And I look on her with green desire—
At the bird-of-paradise, late-night down of her eyes all bell-beautiful,
And her wonderful ankles, bathing in old '40s radio tunes,
Indicative of legs and feet, where they meet
And curve and seem to say, hello there, I'm part of the woman.
And then, there's the baby.
I love him with all my heart.
He's got the cutest dimples I've ever seen.
And when I poke his tummy,
He giggles and tries to feed himself with my keys,
Or the dog's leash, or the dog, or whatever's handy.
And he giggles again when I take his little palms
and rub them against my stubble.
Then, I give his nose a tiny kiss
Where it twinkles above that toothless grin.
And I suppose the best things I can do for him
Are to rub his tummy when he's sick;
To hold him when he has bad dreams;
And, of course, to love his mother.
I suppose it could all happen, though I'd meet her first.
She's somewhere right now,
And her heart's got my name written all over it.
And yet, lying here at midnight,
Still flying solo beneath the covers,
I'm a little afraid, A little eager to forget.
But before I doze off,
It'd be nice to hear the sound of Frank Sinatra singing
"In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning"
Just once more.