I race up the stairs with a steaming cup
of java chip Frappuccino
just like her favorite Starbuck’s creation—
coupled with a bowl of hot Irish oatmeal
smothered in walnuts, cinnamon, raisins
and maple syrup.
But it’s never what she wants.
Maybe if I sang like Pavarotti
or danced like Fred Astaire,
I might finally get a smile.
I think I hear the whispering ambience
of an orchestra tuning up to an oboe.