you are a poet in the quiet
moments, a whittler of
words, slowly paring down
to the meaning of it. don't
silence your voice with the busy-ness,
errands and agendas of little
consequence that will
or won't get done. breathe
and it is of more importance
than anything else you've ever done.
this is my dream; i'm walking
down a corridor and i'm alone.
truly alone. there's the sound of my
feet padding across the tiled floor
and then nothing. silence like
gravity. it becomes black.
and i think of you.
but i'm not falling in
love with you, you so far away and
perfect in that distance. with
your details blurred like memory or a good
monet. and i keep filling in your
features, or weak spots, as if
i'm dreaming you in to existence.
i am not a perfect memory, not so tidy you can
squish me in a picture book with a caption
telling everyone that i was once owned
by you. not so easily forgotten that you could
pass me by on the street like a beggar holding
out his hand for whatever it is you won't give.
not so carelessly classified; a good kisser, the best
blow-job, the least demanding. i will refuse to be
tossed out with the morning paper, the coffee grinds, the inevitable
grapefruit rind. you, in your small routine, will want to.