Tilted Windmills

He picked up the phone,
heard the whir of windmills
and wondered about errors of track-lighting
and truth of photosynthesis.
He thought how his mother would chide him
if she knew of his penchant
for burst neon and fresh balloons.

The painted girl sat across the room,
perched on a three-legged stool,
stiletto-feet swinging.
She heard him murmur about blue
and hoped he’d read her eyes,
filling the space
with his purposeful whimsy.

From tangoing alone
to laughing at their growing energy,
their mismatched buttons
and skipped belt loops
became less important
than the exuberance
they thought they left behind.

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