Did you notice the closest I have come to touching you
is your thigh pressed against mine as the train rocks us
closer on our rides from work to our separate homes?
If you closed your eyes would you recognize my scent
on the platform? Would you follow the trail of my aroma
to sit by me? When I get up to go, does your heart burst
into an orchestra of Kyoto drummers
pounding: Don’t leave. Don’t leave?
Can I shape you into a fantasy who walks me to my door?
Will I pluck up the nerve to bring the illusion of you inside,
introduce you to my furniture, the flowers on my wall,
my CDs? Do you know that since our thighs first met
I have been in close communion with Ella Fitzgerald?
She sings me a hymn: Every time we say goodbye I die
a little. I have counted 100 daydreams where I am trying
to rescue the refrain of this song from becoming a dirge.
Can I tell you about daydream 101? I hide my pot
for one, pull out the teapot for two. We join in sips
of Jasmine tea our libation. The baptized petals float
to the surface. As you raise my china cup to your mouth
the tea glues a petal to your top lip.
This vision drives me to daydream
102 you, feasting on a flower.