What I Want

I want to run a marathon,

or maybe,

do a century bike ride,

or maybe check in with my trainer,

'what up fool?'

I want to go to the city,

drink champagne,

dance all night. 

I want it to be hot

so I can wear my summer skirt

on a date to an outdoor show.

Then go for a drink,

then home for dessert.

I want to learn to:

embroider, 

Swing dance, 

find the good stuff. 

I want to go out to dinner, 

with you,

to a place we both like.

I want to listen to how you love

your passport photo,

sun ripened peaches,

and sea stones.

Instead, I'm at home.

Looking out the window,

wearing a brown hat.

The calendar says spring, 

but the sky is grey.

The heat clicks on now and then.

My body was sick.

It's better now, I guess. 

But the drugs take me away,

and I'm afraid I won't get back in time

for all of it.

Maybe I won't come back at all.

In which case, send me a postcard.

With a photo of you on the front,

eating a peach, standing by the ocean.