Daydream

I played that Eisenhower jazz, that languid, mournful
Combo stuff which always sounds like closing time.
The sky outside was leaden, damp, perfumed by soggy
Fallen leaves. I dreamed that I was not at home,
Not painting walls, but sitting toward the back
Of somewhere, back in Eisenhower days.
A cigarette was burning in an ashtray. Something
Cold, a gin and tonic?, sat inside a ring of condensation
By my hand, and you were there. You were not
Smoking. Your head lay upon my shoulder.
We were happy. Such a dream! In fact I wasn't
Even eight, and your own parents weren't yet born
In Eisenhower days.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 52 times
Written on 2017-11-14 at 23:00

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