your penny loafers

tanned as the leather of your backpack,

smooth as the suede on your penny loafers,

sunkist as the oranges in your morning cup--

summer as can be.

in your dilapidated house with no rooms vacant,

under sheets you put through the wash last week,

suburban inside our cubic cave,

my bare feet caress your bare feet.

tap dancing on cherry wood floors at noon,

we notice that spot in the sun needs new lacquer.

perhaps it's time to up and leave.

we share toast with marmalade and ponder:

our mothers and fathers are not from here,

but moved here by their own volition.

now in our prime,

same age as they had been,

we can go anywhere,

but we stay here by our own volition.

maybe there is something greater.

maybe i can live with smog.

that's not to say i'm dissatisfied.

tonight, i reach with my tippy-toes from the top shelf the beer.

in your penny loafers, you do a number for me.

i split my sides at your goofy charisma.

in all my life i could have never imagined

you and i would share something so primal.

pressed against one another, naked and bare,

our differences fade to the same color.

i could never be bored, despite all my longing.

and you and your penny loafers and jeans,

and you bag filled with newspapers and loose leaf,

in reciprocity, i could never leave.