It lacks champagne
By Amy F., Arlington Heights, IL
I find myself in a dream
remembering the Atlantic Ocean and you
wherelobster claws
cling to blue and white dinner plates.
Long,collected
seaweed hangs from my fork
as I pull sharp silver into mymouth.
"Should we go to the park?"
you ask, only to offer me
buttered rolls
coffee
no sugar cubes concerning the snowstorm outsidethis window.
You never smile.
Maybe, tomorrow.
I see the captain, hisforehead,
two wrinkles
whispered into a seashell
so I can place thestrong, curved
shape against my ear
whenever I hear
two gulls sigh
their wings dipped in tissue paper
that stream birthday wishes nextto
crowded balloons
over the rise of a wave.
The Eiffel Tower appearedto me last night
stars that eat clouds,
reminding me to
chew with mymouth
open
between
green
I
orange
want
redpeppers
you.
The lion crept in between the blister of autumn swirls
andslid down the green curve of a pepper.
He fell asleep curled up onit.
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