| Summertime |
| |
we are level with the skyline
on a barefoot
Saturday.
I pink lemonade lacquer my toes
and talk about Gershwin—the
only
English my mother would sing me
to fais do do. I cannot
sing like her
or Ella Fitzgerald, but it is
enough to make your eyes smile,
forget the stress
|
| And the living |
| |
breathing city that stirs beneath us—
it is ours because
we can remake it and
I can tiptoe dance on top of it
to my own music, because you
will join me
and love a song you do not know if it is
precious to me, because
custom-made
glamour when love rebuilds you
|
| is easy |
