what she wants

she wants to pick
blueberries
somewhere out
past front royal,
at a quaint farm that
gives you a basket
and a few hours
to pluck the vines
clean to your heart's
content. she wants
to taste wine in
middleburg, perhaps
shop a little
for an antique vase,
or desk, or rustic mirror
for a wall above
her mantle. she wants
to go to a museum
and sit on a cushioned
bench and stare into
the likes of rembrandt
or van gogh, and ponder
the meaning of life
and art. she'd like
to go see the cherry
blossoms and have a
stranger take our picture
arm in arm beneath
the pink canopy of trees
near the tidal basin,
she'd like to take a
weekend at the beach,
stay at a comfy bed
and breakfast and walk
hand in hand finding
white shells along
the deserted shore
that whisper the ocean
into our ears.
she wants to share a
sunset, a sunrise, an
icecream cone. a poem.
and all of this
is good, it's fine,
you're in. really.
you're there. except
the big game starts
in exactly an hour,
and there's a pizza on
the way. there's cold
beer in the fridge for
you and some cut up
veggies and soy milk
for her. and, well,
you ask her for a
rain check on all of
that and you use words
like honeybun, sugarplum,
my sweet petunia as
she grabs her purse
and heads out the door.