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by Sharmagne Leland-St. John I want the house to smell like Canadian bacon again On foggy Sunday mornings, While I stay in bed Working the New York Times Crossword puzzle In brown ink, With your precious Mont Blanc fountain pen. I want to go to Musso & Frank’s On a Thursday night For fried oysters And hear your lyric tale unfold— Your stories of Old Hollywood Back in the Day! I want to go fly-fishing with someone Who knows what he’s doing and is good, Someone who’ll help me with my leaders And un-snag my windblown flies When the rocks claim them, And twigs refuse to let go, Someone who won’t run upstream And abandon me At the first sign Of an Atlantic salmon Slicing his way through The icy waters Of the Northern Tyne. I want to lie on the white linen, Down filled sofa In our deco living room In the old Spanish duplex on Croft, With my head in your lap Listening to A Prairie Home Companion On the radio On a Saturday night, And later in bed, hear you say, “They don’t call it Saturday night for nuthin!” Then through sleepy, satisfied eyes Watch your slow grin spread. I miss London too, Mr Chow On a Friday night, Chelsea, And the Chinese vases With single stalks Of freesia and paper white narcissus You bought from the street vendors And brought home each afternoon As a love offering To our cosy little cottage In Aubrey Walk, The trips to SoHo In the Tube, The Indian restaurants, The Constable Room At the V & A, Tramps, Farlow’s and Hardy's, Taramasalata, Chilled Polish vodka, The Tate, Coming home together The night too dark for dreaming, Sleeping like spoons Beneath an antique patchwork quilt I found in a dusty curio shop On Portobello Road. I miss the unequalled luxury Of being in love once again. Return to:
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