The Law Of The Orchid And Rainbow Jungle

With the cool as in chilly fall air around her,

with the city of Chicago around her,

with the cool as in fashionable stores
of north Michigan Avenue around her,

with the bright red fabric of a carefully designed,
constructed and selected red jacket around her,

with the fragrance of something like
orchids and rainbows around her,

she leaned even closer to me
and kissed me and waited.

“You know I’d marry you,” I said, “but I must
always think first of my ship and my crew.”

“You don’t have a crew,” she said.
“And you don’t have a ship.”

“No crew?” I said.

“No crew,” she said. “And no ship.
You’re not Captain Kirk.”

“No ship?” I said. “Not Kirk?
That puts me in the tough position
of not having a good reason
for not proposing to you.”

“Is it because you’re an idiot,” she said,
“lost in the pretend romance
of pretending to be a real writer
and pretending anybody reads
anything except pretend books
written by pretend writers
and pretending to be married to me
would be too much pretending
even for your pretend brain?”

“If I say yes that’s it,” I said,
“can we still hug and kiss and stuff?”

“We can pretend,” she said,
“to hug and kiss and stuff.”

“Then why don’t we just pretend,” I said,
“I have a ship and I have a crew
and I’m Captain Kirk?”

“Because I have more fun,” she said,
“pretending you’re an idiot.”

I pointed a finger at her.
I said, “You just said something nice.”

She blushed, deeply, the color
of some wild jungle orchid
or the outside arc
of some wild jungle rainbow.

She grabbed my arm, roughly,
and said, “Come on. Let’s go shopping.
Now you have to buy me something.”