t             t    h        t               s   s i m p l y
h         e           i      h           d    c
e      m                n    a        r      a n n o t
r         o             g        t    o        e
e  a r e    s     s              w          x p r e s s

Here he is
on the swiveling chair
thinking about someone
who would eventually care

There he is;
concealed by the book cover
seeking refuge
in tales and fables,
the words started to hover

and today as we passed by
the little stone steps to our house
(it's no longer a home - just a pitiful dome)
and all the little turns
we had to make just to get there
i realized all of them were left
and i remember thinking quickly
as the turns passed us by
is this why we always fight
because we are always left
and never right
(n.n.)

Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men- poor folks-
work.
That moment- to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.