Healing hands and a knead to palms

Again down the straight dark street familiar,
holiday periphery red, white, and greenish
mere distractions, if that, so breathless bored
until a left turn where a perfect waxed car sat

once was a double lot there smooth and grassy
a little coupe slept in two-tone taupe and brown,
gave rise to a fantasy of cool. Wanna date, baby?
My tranny is push-button, Plymouth automatic too.

Three houses now where that grass once grew,
three more blocks along cookie cut white capes
and a right turn into memories: a youthful flu outta
cigarettes causes a feverish walk to Jack's deli for
some cool mentholatum smoked waist out window,
grey ashes on pitted aluminium frames an only clue.

Slow the drive and smoking menthol still to pull into
a patterned macadam drive past it's black prime,
some lonely cracks on blocks where a wind blown
screen blew Suzanne right off the porch untrellised;

now a cherry Camry driven was a wish once
in heavy purple purple flannel, tomorrow we
shall move you to a bed where the snow can
be seen, gone drifting in a dream grown white.

I would love

I would love to sit with glasses of wine and you
if for no other reason than to study your face,
no other reason than to drink your idle patter
into lips languid lips while you go on amusing.

Say what you will, I'm in a you adoring mood-
each little stridency, each charming blush, excitedly
brought forth by the ruby rush of warming Malbec
only serving to hasten my silly dreams still within.

I will listen to your words of course all in course,
all but totally slayed, your face flush with beauty.

If a prolonged hesitation between sound and sense appears

so must it be as a lamb's sweet foot is offered buttered
and a memory riced rheumy is soul taste toasted cumin-
within that taste a wide taught waste crosses shuttered
with puffy-eyed dazes down under daisies tautly shoed in.

When frail male hearts fail it prevails non-denominationally
and larded hard. Oompah, a blackened band puffs to grieve,
while a glance at belt bulge widths wilts to discretely deceive
a secret wanton scream over the tone-deaf wait, intentionally.

See what I mean? Say yes to me liar, I am no blue sooth
and neither and both are true at the solemn end of words:
a triangular pumpkin filled fritter dropped tray to booth
strays beyond salvation. Back to a kitchen, kitsch absurd

in days of dancing. Asked too soon to dray the grey pall,
why eulogize this long? Why wait? Reply. Folks, that's all.