We could of have a house
a place to call our own
you would be in the living room
watching television
stoned.
I would be in the bedroom
or guestroom
or garage
playing guitars
or drums.
Every day, I would serenade you with noise
and you would get annoyed.
Soon I would join you
and feel you warmly in my arms
your hair would sleep on my chest
my chin perched on your skull.
This gentle embrace could last forever
to the soundtrack of my noisy serenade.

We might have had a dog
and named him some incredible name
a husky or a terrier
lazy and untrained.
He'd lick our noses
no matter where we've been
no matter what we've done.
He would have been our first child
a hairy son.
We would have moments in the kitchen
lingering around the fridge
microwaving many dinners
until romance inspired a home cooked meal.
Some wild soup with corn and beef
paper thin cornbread.
A metaphor for casserole
passed down by many of your Mothers.
I would take your hand, dear
and stir myself in with your recipe.
Laughing in the oven.