Norah

—I used to think 
That someday I’d relax a little
And be more like you

If Norah Jones were my friend

we would spend Sundays

at the local coffee shop 

indulging in our weekly lattes,

laugh as the foam catches our lips. 

We would call each other late at night, 

read snatches of poems and song lyrics, 

say You’re so good. We would complain

about our mothers, bring each other

books, recommend recipes, sigh over

our men, say, That haircut is adorable!

We would scheme of taking an artist

trip to India without our men 

to wander through ashram temples

and practice yoga, the scent of incense

clinging to our hair. We would 

be bad and eat too much chocolate

and drink too much wine and say,

You’re terrible. We would talk

about our wrinkles and sagging asses 

and how much we hate

to exercise. We would go to chick

flicks on Saturday afternoons

and shop the sales.