Sour plums
rest like pillows
in a bowl of crystal.
We slow dance,
pushed against
one another
while Barbra Streisand
sings happy days
are here again.
I step on your toes
and you let me
because you know
it makes me happy
when I climb
a little taller
atop your wingtips.
You dance me
through our kitchen,
spinning me
until I’m dizzy.
Go along,
bad times,
we are rid of you
at last.
Pressed into walls
covered with blue
and white artichokes,
our bodies shift
and roll,
barreling into
the night.
 

When morning comes,
sunlight rushes in

and fills our home
with golden liquid.
I scramble eggs
and butter toast.
On your way out
you forget to eat,
grabbing a plum instead.
I watch you drive off,
biting into still
sour indigo.