Murmuring in the background lies the twang of guitar strings
Cooperatively overlapping, not interrupting, the sound of morning avians, calling.
Their foreign tongue harps to me in octaves and E notes, guileful.
Slower than the gentle sway of willow leaves,
than an important wrinkled deliberation.
A manufactured message just concerning life.
Setting free my idling soul, the one residing in those darkest moments before dawn.
I want to smash myself against your wide smiles.
I want to open century old champagne bottles.
And down it all like childhood ambrosia.
My Welch's grapefruit juice.
I want to thrust at you the happy endings.