Teacups. Candles. Sounds of an argument
drift onto the terrace from the parlor
and fade away into the summer gloom.
Plucked guitar strings answer the refrain --
a tired old tune of unrequited somethings.
Needle-sharp voices soften; disagreements
are shelved behind the dusty porcelain
and painted dolls of Empire days. We aren't
such stuff as dreams are made on -- no, we're built
too tangibly for that: we shatter and thrum
like teacups and guitar strings. Sing with me.
Let's sing a song we'll all forget tomorrow,
and in some summer such as this, years past,
seated by empty chairs, will recollect.