This day smells like cinnamon
and tastes like maraschino cherry you made
on the chipped enamel stovetop
I covet every time I hide in your secret
garden where we sip tea
from half sized cups set in pretty fluted saucers
the pattern is called
dance of the grasshopper
It was devised on spruce pine day
boys were shooting off rockets
shy smiles of unimagined success
moon launches on far Fridays
backpack slung onto a railroad car
hooch in a paper bag
flung far as duties left undone
songs not yet sung
one string hanging loose on the guitar
in my back pocket is a square envelope
holding the D string
Is it the one?
and tastes like maraschino cherry you made
on the chipped enamel stovetop
I covet every time I hide in your secret
garden where we sip tea
from half sized cups set in pretty fluted saucers
the pattern is called
dance of the grasshopper
It was devised on spruce pine day
boys were shooting off rockets
shy smiles of unimagined success
moon launches on far Fridays
backpack slung onto a railroad car
hooch in a paper bag
flung far as duties left undone
songs not yet sung
one string hanging loose on the guitar
in my back pocket is a square envelope
holding the D string
Is it the one?
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