Cinnamon, Clove, and Magnolias

When whispers from the inherited gramophone 

Sing sweeter than the cacophony of drinks in shakers,

When the week’s exhaustion seeks respite 

In servings of boxed wine instead of tailored martinis,

When ancient TV reruns nudge your heart to

Leap higher than a cue ball over felt,

When the crinkled linen inside your elbows no longer 

Reminds you of their tweed jacket over your shoulders,

If your appreciation for their curls never 

Landed as favourably as Isla Fisher’s behind the bar,

Why rest in the chuckles of another, who doesn’t 

Make quite as good company as you do to yourself?

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