|
When you and I are old and grey... I'll have a belly, a hound dog named Shakespeare and a pickup truck. You will have a pretty cotton dress and glaucoma, which will steal your sight. And you'll stand on our porch in the morning with your face to the sky, and I'll come outside with the birdseed or something, going: "Whoa, whoa, baby--don't stare right into the sun like that!" And you'll say: "Oh, you old poop! I may be blind, but I'm not a dope... I'm a heliotrope. That's a fancy word for sunflower, if you don't remember!" And I'll go: "Awwwww--I know heliotrope, hell... I invented it!" And then I'll whisper: "Hey. The yonder is just as wild and blue as people say it is today. And you can't see, but... I haven't done yard work for weeks. The crabgrass is practically piggyback on the buttercups, Buttercup, but I love you. I love you. And I'm gonna keep you mine like a crow loved to hold an old telephone line, remember those?" And you'll say: "What, crows?" And I'll go: "Nahhh--telephone lines. Remember? Back in the days when the bedding was yours but the bed was mine. You remember that, Sunshine?" And then I'll shuffle back indoors, bent but still feisty, and I'll do what I always do. I'll lie on the floor with a scrap, and a pen, I'll write a poem, describe the rest of the day for you you blind, old... |