Maybe in the next life we two will grow
up together, grow old together. In
the next life, maybe you’ll play piano
while I strum guitar, decide to begin
writing songs and sonnets ad libitum.
Maybe we’ll live by the lake, with Mozart
and Hank Williams as neighbors, our sanctum
a refuge for Michelangelo’s art,
Dylan Thomas’s verse, his namesake’s songs.
Draped around the fireplace, they’ll gaze in space,
listen to your lyric voice all night long,
rise, record in their work your ageless grace.
Caught up in creation, they’ll miss your glow
as you smile at sunrise. But I will know.
Roger Armbrust
June 7, 2013
