Paying attention, I’ve kissed you and watch
you drive from the parking lot. I now step
back inside this art-filled townhouse. I catch
strong aroma of fresh Folgers. It’s crept
upstairs with me as I lie on our bed,
place your pillow across my chest, recall
waking as child to coffee’s smell, soul fed
by security of mom and dad, all
that love through the house. I still see your form,
classic nude, standing by the stove, flowing
hair like midnight, or silent sacred storm
across your shoulders. Your breasts of smooth cream.
I smile as you again reveal your dream.
Roger
April 5, 2011
