Perfect.

I dreamed last night

that you and I

were guests

at a fancy hotel,  where

a cup of cafe au lait

cost nine dollars and

the 800-thread count sheets,

like fallen moths’ wings.

Perfect.

How impressed each morning

was I,

with the thoughtful and charming way you had

arranged room service

with the finest china and Reed and Barton silver

and coffee exactly the way

I like it.

Perfect.     Does this mean

you love me?

Funny, even in my dreams

I was let down,

heartbroken, even —

yet, nevertheless, not surprised

when the final bill

arrived in a leather case

on a silver tray  and

you

had charged it all

on

my credit card.

Perfect.

*note: PTG: FELICITY, 1997. oil on board, 20×20.


Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under diary, imperfection, life, love, poetry, sadness, stupidity

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s