The Lover's Scooter Ride
Under the late moon,
Would it be cozy or small?
you drove me with the scooter,
Like the way your write poems,
for trips to 7-Eleven,
in Moleskine notebooks,
it was two in the morning,
the profound way you use words,
with stationery;
Riding in the wind,
in the empty neighborhoods,
lit by the streetlights;
my rosy palms on your chest,
my cheek presses against your back.
You sped past squirrels and rabbits.
Cozy and worn homes,
I ponder about the houses,
old or brick-by-brick;
imagining stories of
painters, poets, or lovers.
The scooter has halt,
you turn around to see me,
and you press my lips,
Your soft lips, warm like fresh pie,
apple crisp, by your doorstep.
In awe at your love for life
and your own machinations,
lips drip of nectar,
The house with the yard,
do they have joyous children,
Bengal cats, or Huskies?
Do the big sandstone houses
have barbecues and kabobs?
The concrete building,
with the faint koi mural,
are they fish lovers?
Families of cobblestone:
are they wealthy golf players?
The couples’ cottage:
did they grow the sunflowers?
Do they knit or sew?—
Your soft ruffled feathers, flock
brown, always held together,
your hair in the wind—
I ponder, as I ask to be closer,
like you know my quiet thoughts.
My eyes pull me towards you,
you’re my lighthouse, my beacon,
your cocoa brown eyes.
Always yearning for you,
I jot down your poetry,
and begin to scribe my tears.
My eyes become soft,
I hear my heart make a thump.
I’ll always love you,
in any story with you,
or in any life.
How would our future home be?
Would it be big?
