A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.

Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.

Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.

In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.  
Pirouetting to the ***,
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.

Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.

Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.

By the nature of balance, things come and go. The ones I love are drifters like me- we are lost and found. Often, it's in a change of perspective. We are in a complex sea of currents and tides. Sometimes they carry us away together, sometimes they send us in different directions, and sometimes they pull us together... The currents and tides that we drift within are the same as those which drift within and through us. My words simply are not from me, they are passing though me, just as I am not from any place I have been, but passing though... Home is not a place I am from. I am from no place (creates the illusion of separateness). Home is what I'm from. Love is my home, what I am from. I can be home when I'm drifting, when I am lost, when I am found. I'll strive to remember to keep my heart light, and trust the flow, so that I can be carried to wherever I am to go.

My body
Is like the body of a poem
  That you're writing
And with each stroke of your quill
I lose myself but become more real
       I fall in love with your feel as you fill in my blanks

What distance separates
After being this intimate
And holding tight
To the one out of sight.

A stranger under the covers
The soulmate out in the open
Lovers at bay
And lovers that will not stay.

That chatter of passerby
The friendly advice
One too many
One is enough.