How Things Stay The Same (Poetry)

There was a time I
thought we would move to
the city and get
ourselves absorbed in
with the arty crowd

We’d live in a quaint
retro attic flat
not far from the sea
and you’d paint all day
while I wrote poems

Nights we’d spend drinking
wine with friends, talking
art and literature
till the small hours
listening to jazz

But in the long run
as more years slipped past
that dream seemed less than
ever possible
ideas dimmed and died

Home is where the heart
finds itself to be
once the brain admits
the old fantasy’s
out of the question