Music of the Jukebox

Sometimes,
all I want to do
is count the yellow lines
dotted in the center of the road,
driving to a place,
or maybe a time,
more simple than here,
more kind than this.

I can see myself
with flowers in my hair,
and a sign in my hand,
and a song in my heart,
rioting in the streets
deep into the night.

And as the birds begin
to chirp their morning song,
as the sun floods
the edges of the sky
with its warmth,
and its light,
I would meet
with a childhood sweetheart
for coffee and a kiss.

I can see myself
in a little red dress,
a red that matched the seats
of a simple diner
that could have existed
only before Denny's became a chain,
dancing to the music of the jukebox
that we kept filling with quartes
so the world
could hear our song.

He would walk me home,
and I would slip into bed
minutes before ma would open the door
and let in the smell
of pancakes and bacon,
and behind her
I could see a sibling
already running for the kitchen.

Yeah, I can see myself
on a simple Sunday morning,
where I would never wish
that I was anywhere but here.