For Round 5 of the Son of Slam 3; about a time when I REALLY played the fool... |
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. |