From Detroit to Fresno
isn’t too far, if only in a poem.
From Mountain View to San Mateo
is an ocean, because I can’t dial the number.
It’s just doodles this life,
just doodles and daydreams.
The only time I dream of color is when I dream of you.
Then the restaurant is always pastel,
the dining room is always peach.
The way there is a maze
but I know the way—I take your hand
and lead you through
the wood-paneled halls.
Time stops while we dance.
Then we cut to the chase—
at least in my dreams we do—
or rather, we fade to next morning,
where you begin to wake
and I, having already eaten
an orange for breakfast,
I stand on the balcony
looking over the Pacific,
that beautiful blue infinity
next to a place that maybe
we could call home.
© 1996, 1997, 1999 Wayne Pitcher
