Your foot is
up on the kitchen
chair, noticing
a little dust
on the canvas
on the ked’s
toe edge.
If we had just kept
running, for no reason,
stayed in
dusty playgrounds
so to speak,
living un-seriously
in the l.A sunlight.
Your hand is
on my shoulder
without pretext
or apprehension.
Noticing your dress
is faded from
the washes,
the puffed sleeves
repeatedly unstylish.  
If we had just
been arm in arm
without a plan,
just reading to
the lonely,
making bread
for anyone,
as easily as smiling.
Your eyes never
got old, to me,
if we had
just kept
lives uncluttered,
like a rented room,
left with just the crease
on the spread, where
some one else will
sleep next.