I wish my life were an old movie
so I could slow dance to a clarinet
with a woman around me swaying sweet.
As a sharp tie conducts my flirtations.
My friends and I would smoke like chimneys until sunrise
when our burning embers would mirror the sun.
And Johnny would yawn and look with droopy eyes
at the orange dawn and smile a simple wish,
all but archaic in an overly dramatic world.
How does Hollywood treat the mornings?
An impending deadline? A harborer of conflict?
Or a slow FADE UP to a sleepy city?
A sweet stirring in a gentle bed for two.
The movies are a romance, the morning is a song.
Ask the dreamers for their thought and
listen to the birds for their tune.
I’d like to be wandering out in the early sun,