The pancake tree softly slapping in the breeze,
gravy to dip your ground-biscuits in.
A sip of ginge,
locking eyes with Bella.

The taste of three or four Stellas,
blue twine escaping our lips
as we smoke in between our
bouts of rapid acceleration.

She can't get the music playing
with my mouth on her earlobe.
The stolen speaker saves us.

Naked on the deck,
enjoying the wooden structure
before she burns it down.

She's puzzled, puzzling.
Dwight's **** is
somewhere in the
jumbled mix.

Locking eyes again,
with Bella.
I laugh, and laugh
and laugh.

I love to laugh.
I love to say "No."
when she asks
if she's allowed
to come.

So close too,
maybe this time
I'll say
"Yes."

Maybe not.