At a little café
on a side street of the Pittsburgh Strip
wrought iron chairs sprayed white
with curlicues to match,
The houses, old but proud,
wore wrought iron railing on balconies
that sported red geraniums in terracotta pots,
You bought me daisies.
We sipped lattes
and pretended it was Paris
in April. A rainbow slicked puddle
was the Seine
— until a taxi splashed by
and stained my dress with runoff
Sometimes reality lacks respect for dreams.