|Stars over the Atlantic
on a frigid salt air evening
in a breezy northern shore town.
Our cheeks flushed with December,
our bellies warmed by burgundy.
You, flowing lilac gypsy girl,
a cloaked Stevie Nicks witch,
with boots fringed and made to ride.
And me, all Sid Vicious spikes,
denim skins; forever blacks and blues.
“Here they Come!”
announced with snare drum!
So surreal, in our mildly altered state,
and giddy, with innocence expected.
and hopelessly off key,
the marching band
“jingle bell rocks” our little town,
so we laugh and “pony” on the walkway.
Papa Smurf on stilts,
so high and wise in the night sky,
blows a slide whistle, then strokes his beard.
Portly Shriners in tiny cars, and crazy velvet caps,
spin precise figure eights with engines echoic.
Too soon, the fire truck finale’.
Sirens blare, and spin red beams
in horror show strobe.
Santa waves, smiles and tosses peppermints
from a convertible Cadillac.
The sudden ending clears the crowd,
and leaves the contrast of quiet.
We buy steamy Styrofoams of coffee from the “Ugly Mug,”
and slowly stroll lamp lit avenues homeward.
Our bed, the best place in town,
to savor scents in natural and patchouli,
I say, “Leave the boots on.”
and I lay you back and flow timeless and drowsy,
and in the morning
we awaken side by side.
© Copyright 2003 Harlow Flick (UN: wolfgang at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Harlow Flick has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|Log In To Leave Feedback|