Magic, in Dog Years

Lets go off to the gypsy's store
and buy a bottle of 1970 chicanery.

We're fermenting, old boy.

We, dusty old throw pillows
from the last decade -
still sleeping on tattered couches.

Yet the Gypsy sees how bright we are
like grapes ripened by a long gone sun -
glimmering in tandem
with her sequined veil
dangling before her eyes.

We know the truth, old dog.

We're ever so faithful riddles
and drunk on our own beliefs
our own answers and truths -
waltzing through words,
trying to give it all away.

Meditate!

The Gypsy's truth is a trick of the eye,
under florescent lights.
Yet, even a false light provides warmth
in the company of strangers
so we drink her tricks wholeheartedly
to keep our feet moving
and our glasses full.