Pink Flamingos.

It was moonlight and twinkle light reflecting off of pink flamingos on your cotton/linen skirt and then further onto your face, and you looked like starlight, Hollywood and the hills beyond.
I awoke this morning thinking, after dreams, that a life of nights like that would be completely, and more than so, acceptable. I do come on too strong.
You see, I’m in a pickle and it is not as though I haven’t proclaimed it to the world here and in person. The spirit of a Danish prince has me, and has had me, for months. I walk around in black and gingham and plaid patterns of the aforementioned color. I make rainbows of shades therein.
But last night it was pink flamingos and, no matter how it is shaken, there is not a shade of black to be had there.
There was a dream, look up, and in that there was you and marble and whiskey and frosted glass – window treatments, harmony vocals, Fun Dip� and one-legged pink birds. I’m sorry if it all doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t to me either, and I feel as odd as a six-legged elephant today .
But to go on…
There were two girls in dance recital attire, a boy in baseball leggings and a message from your mother when we got home politely asking if everything was alright, and how we were doing – if we needed anything. My mom asking how the girls were doing. A walk to the closet after bathing children, and two pink flamingos standing in a puddle in the yard at midnight, of all things.