Night.
There's a lantern in your window.
If we could come in closer we would see you in your housecoat.
What a sight.
Grains of sawdust mist the air,
Like your kitchen is a movie set and you're the heroine in there.
In your place
A renaissance collage
Next to the plastic lobsters
A reverent homage.
Then you might
Write another bashful letter
To a Russian ballerina
All the way in New York City
It's Saturday Night
On Utopia Parkway
I pray that you might
Think of something you'll love to love
(to love to love to love)
Tonight
My dear Mary Baker Eddy
I pray for Brother Robert
And those boots of lead again.
Despite all I know I can't contain
I'll gather all the parts I need and hope that we remain.
Whitewash over me until
Pure Varathane runs through my veins
And I'll at last be still.
Right when the arrow leaves the bow,
It erases all uncertainty and love I'll never know.
It's Saturday Night on Utopia Parkway
I pray that I might
Make you something you'll love to love
(to love to love to love)
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2 comments:
*floats away* - your words never cease to move and transport me to some other, fascinating space... I know I don't comment as much as I should but not a few days go by that I don't stop by here and soak in your musings.
Thank you so much. I wish I could say I wrote this one, but Christine Fellows did. It's wonderful, isn't it?
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