Somewhere, My Love

Somewhere, my love

I could love you like it’s 1953
again, or at least like the ’53
I imagine, a colorized version

of Black and White America
where I’m a diligent worker
in the middle-management

of a family-owned factory, fretting
about helping our neighbors
without enough money.

I could love you with a kiss
at the door and a compliment
on the smell of your roast,

and try to think very little
about meaningful things;
the Constitution, war,

or sociology. I could love you
before TV, once a week, on
my birthday. And putter through

that existence. But I’d rather
struggle through business,
bills, roles, religions, equality.

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