Daydream

I played that Eisenhower jazz, that languid, mournful
Combo stuff which always sounds like closing time.
The sky outside was leaden, damp, perfumed by soggy
Fallen leaves. I dreamed that I was not at home,
Not painting walls, but sitting toward the back
Of somewhere, back in Eisenhower days.
A cigarette was burning in an ashtray. Something
Cold, a gin and tonic?, sat inside a ring of condensation
By my hand, and you were there. You were not
Smoking. Your head lay upon my shoulder.
We were happy. Such a dream! In fact I wasn't
Even eight, and your own parents weren't yet born
In Eisenhower days.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-11-14 at 23:00

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jim The PoetBay support member heart!
This poem comes with its own mood music, which makes it a complete picture.
2017-11-17


Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
I still enjoy those languid, mournful jazz and blues sitting on a wide porch watching the rain come down. The beloved on your shoulder is what makes it best. Nice imagery all around. The Eisenhower years? That made me smile. Nice daydream.
Ashe
2017-11-15