There is a movie theater in my head
that mostly shows cartoons
and grainy  previews
of coming attractions.
My favorite stars you
lying naked on our green couch,
sipping lemonade,
and thumbing through a magazine.
The magazine is inconsequential,
but, for the record,
it is called Cat Fancy,
and you linger
on a photograph on page 46.
It's an old movie -- a classic! –
though I never really
saw you naked,
and we never owned
anything together,
and, as far as I know,
green couches
are nothing but myth.