In a hypothetical world,
I am a ***** goddess of poetry,
Enshrined in my coffeehouse castle,
my words the songs of a generation.
Attended by sugary seraphim upon my beach side throne,
my name resonates on the tongues of cappuccino demigods.
He, bespectacled, brilliant, falls at my feet,
quoting darkly my childlines.
As gilded graces join us in our dance,
we whirl through a city of stars into
our moonpalace home.
Fall through velvet loveclouds into beds of miracles.
Strongly carefree of wings or wheels,
tasting of copper and chocolate,
a literary, bad-­tempered love of scarlet phrases in my head.
He whispers, solemn:
“God has spoken, and he sounds like Elvis.”