One day we’ll sit on this couch,
we’ll tell each other stories about
this day and that, how it all went
when we were young, looking
at people as they walked by.
We’ll pretend you’re a famous artist
and I a concert pianist. You’ll make
me a painting, maybe a la Picasso,
I’ll play you a passage from Schubert,
both these things mauve or blue.
Later, we’ll have our garden tea,
with cake. We won’t make a scene,
we promise. We’ll breathe in slowly
and try not to crumple our faces and
skirts, taking care to leave the table
cloth unruffled, cups and plates clean,
napkins unsmudged. We’ll slow
down, down, past the bed to the
ground, past the hour of leavetaking,
after they have turned off the lights,
our sculptured selves lifeless again.