What would you think of me
if I set a table for iced tea out in a park
with two chairs; for you, for me while air
still gold, the cloth checked, gone Deco?

You’d look swell in such a place, I swear
you would. Not far from a lake, it’d all look
just out of this world, like some pearl-strung
still frame from a faraway screen, all blithe

and fair. Small lights, I’d have them there
too, bugs that each hold a piece of moon
to build as gold fades to a June night blue.
What would you think of such a rose? Of “I may

be wrong, but I think you’re wonderful.” And as I
mean it, I’d spill my drink, honest I would. Please say
at least, you’d smile, at me, at petaled songs, the beat
of thumbs to thorns, and of love, old, gone Deco.