There Is A Song Which Makes Me Think This:
I would have liked a balalaika for breakfast,
in the garden after sleeping late.
A table of pink wrought iron leaves and frosted glass,
our milk poured from a sheer green pitcher,
bowls of black cherries and cream.
Your hands smoothing the placement, curling the napkin,
a yellow tanager in the pepper tree.
My foot on yours beneath the table,
while we consider the morning and plan our day.
I should have liked all this,
and a balalaika.