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—


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.