Rich

In memory we’re lying
In a guest bed’s linen cloud
Bright in summer morning sun

Momentarily startled
By a sense of good fortune.
Downstairs, people are moving.

Breakfast smells are floating up.
Dark green pines look almost gold
Behind the white lace curtains.

This is so comfortable.
This is so luxurious.
This is so unnatural.

In memory we’re lying
To ourselves we’re meant for this.