We are not as elegant as marble
But we are trying
Living our fantasies together
In public parks
The erection of wildflowers
Laps space between us
Orange flowers and cherry lip balm
She drinks whipped cream
Through a pink straw
I touch her affectionately in public
And it is dangerous
Men approach us frequently
Wanting something
We do not want to give
In place of affection she observes the sky
Where form ends and where it begins
Takes a photo of me
Applies a filter
Posts it
I duplicate, expand
She talks softly, like the hue of something
Gently becoming something else
I watch her and I am moved
By that of her which flashes before my engine
Is it because they can’t tell the Casa Grecque
from the Cabane Grecque?
Because they drown in buckets of oversalted feta,
or they have lost their ways through white tablecloths
and folded napkins returning from the restrooms?