Serenade

You’re in a boat on the ocean, your head on the lap of your lover.

Your hands skim the surface. No wait. You’re in your black Volvo
delivering mail. The sun is coming up and there’s a deer

strolling across the highway with nowhere to go, but you
could be eating oysters with red sauce on the city square.
Reggae in an adjacent café. Cars parked at angles.

The radio is but static. Your mouth is moving to the tune
you’ve long imagined. In the sky, a painter’s neglected guitar.
In your lover’s arms, an ocean of musical notes and his

damp seiner’s sleeves. The sun comes up slowly.
The moon never so round.  Your drink tastes picante.
There’s a melodic clatter of shells on the floor of your car.

The doe in the road knows you. Her eyes resemble

your lover’s. You are strumming his arm. Water laps

at the hull.