Wishes by David Spicer

If you could retrace the time
reading Nietzsche as you
smoked and sipped brandy
older than a gypsy’s overcoat,
would you hear shuffles
in your reveries about Napoleon?
That little guy was no saint,
nor a mystic like you. I, too,
wish I could erase my insults
fluttered at you like a blackbird’s
song, wish we could remember
our recipe for cucumbers and vinegar
sliced thinner than quarters scattered
in a meadow or have our wedding
under a cypress, and I’d mutter
Mea culpa if I ever acted like
a dummy in a tuxedo.
I cherish your gift of binoculars,
soul mate. You said I could
be an eyewitness to sweet crimes,
that you loved my beard distracting
the anger shimmering in your eyes.
No, you’re not a witch, so I wish
we’d trade the cows corralled outside,
sell the trailer, then board our boat,
Spider Annie, opening our selves
to the hum of life as we sail
the waters of this blue, happy planet.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.

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