Leaving Minerva

You draw me to dinner at dusk
complete with candles and a woodland view
atop an Adirondack peak.

We sip Bully Hill and laugh at the man.

I allow myself to fill up on bread,
become unguarded
and make a motion toward the fall...

and we’re rolling down the mountain to your farm
where fireflies wink inside a barnyard loft,
and a guitar
and some blankets
and another bottle of Bully
passed giggling mouth to mouth
and you singing -

stars shining bright above you…

- with eyes that pull unwavering at mine
and offer meaning to the sappy lyrics:

…night breezes seem to whisper “I love you…”

and I am so taking the bait,
hooked and keen on dreams coming vivid into colour.

One serenade follows another,
and the wine
and those fireflies
and here enters a gingersnap moon
framing herself carefully inside the open loft space
between haystacks and rafters
and I am getting quite carried away
along our countryside courting stream…

and so I plunge courageous into risk
and tell you I think I am falling
(or have possibly already
fallen)

and you reach a switch, from on to off…
and lights come up at some director’s “cut!”
because I have strayed from the script.

Before the swindle’s sting begins,
I have a moment to appreciate your scam
but then the con is cruel, and I am in my car,
and I can’t travel fast or far enough away.