In my dreams we are Fred and Ginger.
We dip.
We twirl.
We glide cheek to cheek
in a pool of blue light,

you in that smart top hat,
me in chiffon and stilettos.
People gaze at us with longing.
How elegant! they exclaim.
How effortless!

In the real world of course
you and I are not Fred and Ginger
we are not even close.
On our best days we are
maybe Fred and Wilma

punching a time-clock down at
the quarry; padding around on
chubby square feet;
wearing the skin of some
prehistoric thing.

You grin and say Let’s go for
ribs at the drive-in.
And as we race off
in that car with
stone wheels

and no floorboard
I think What a lucky girl
I am, living this
Yabba Dabba Doo life
with you.