WISH I WAS AN ENGLISH MUFFIN

I listen to Bookends and feel nothing but jealousy

at the simple articulation of melancholy 

wonder, easy as pie, kitchen window, how the seasons 

shudder into agelessness, how the smiles dissipate from lust

into boredom. this is enough, this life material, to write from.

it is not merely the summoning but the sound these juveniles

make when their voices touch, angelic wing fluttering 

of course, they were lovers, and how angelic to be so young

and so wistfully and obviously in love, these two boys,

their paltry english pronunciation, words, words, 

just there, the right ones: juniper and lamplight, boysenberry jam.