Tisk tisk, Mr. Smith
She slapped her hand with the pointer
Looking up, I see she’s stern
I stand, wishing to anoint her
I am commanded to about face
I’ve committed an infraction
Taking stock of my flesh
She swoons in satisfaction
But I’m returned to my kitchen
Now pouring a cup of Lady Grey
The kettle broke the spell
My imagination had taken me away
Last season’s vintage with coffee stains
Spelling out what we might genuinely need
Hope we might outlive our transgressions
Errant dispatches; all the ones you forgot to read
We kept dancing
Long after the record stopped spinning
On the verge of your dreams
The fire’s low; the air is thinning
What happens tomorrow
& long after we’ve awoken
Will these dreams ever return
Will this spell be forever broken
