Greens come alive on St. Patrick’s Day.
Each shade saturates;
they vibrate
finely under the lights:
Kelly, olive, emerald, forest, moss, teal, pistachio.
Hello, let’s go, baby!
You flashed your cat-eyes
from across the room,
a welcome trance—
You had an Irish accent;
your tongue full of whiskey.
I don’t believe in curses
& superstitions.
Please don’t pinch me
if you want us to remain friends.
I know the days are growing longer,
& the flowers are budding to bloom,
but it’s way too soon
to go all the way—
Maybe,
if you are good, & promise
me some needed attention
& good loving, Baby,
you can see me
in my green underwear,
feeling natural. I don’t have
a green thumb, & I eat greens
but cannot cook,
but I can try to make some room,
some time for you
if you turn out to be the One,
if growing old together
is a good idea—
In the meantime,
my green bra
holds the interesting
bits & tits in,
but only for 8 hours a day.
Hope you like the view;
hope we can visit Ireland
someday where green
is natural currency
or in the rest of days,
when the other colors matter.