A butterfly brush breeze caresses my lips

and Etta James sings a promise of dreams
she can press her cheek against.
As my car rises to the crest of the hill,
I spot, sillhouted against a raspberry sorbet sky,
a man and woman, grocery bags in hand,
her pullover the shade of her silver hair,
his wrinkles a contrast to his crisp white shirt
and ball cap. They are walking home.
This, please, I tell Etta.
To grow old with someone.
Once, twice, five times I wish it,
in tandem with the blinker that will take me
around the corner and away.