It’s a Tuesday,
This coffee shop is too busy for a Tuesday.  
Set out looking for a quiet place to write,
My lover beside me to read.

The monotone music
Drowned out by the conversation
Of an eclectic man,
In a floral shirt
Talking about pond algae,
And poaching the kings deer.  
It’s a Tuesday.

My lover beside me
Tucked into a Leo Tolstoy book
That’s as big as she is,
Daunting.
She snacks and sips, we share a glance,
So lovely to do this on a Tuesday.  

The grotesque egg salad sandwich
Across me keeps distracting me.  
Maybe that’s why the lady
Hasn’t touched it,
It’s a Tuesday.

I never wanted to write
about the grotesque egg salad,
Stream of Consciousness.

We don’t hate sleep,
We just love each other.
Hours roll past,
One after another.

It’s 4am,
The time of songbirds and lovers.
We’re driving nowhere
on the empty streets.
Won’t let the day end,
Do anything to avoid the sheets.

Not afraid of the dark,
We just love one another.
Don’t put out the light,
Fear of missing the other.

Your name on my breath
In my restless slumber,
I’ll see you in my dreams,
My one true lover.

When I lay with you
My body sings
To your tune
Every beat hitting its mark

I sit on the edge of desire
Tension rising
like the crescendo

You, the perfect falsetto
Harmony to my song
Passion is our conductor
And love is the sheet music
On which its written

Take shelter my dandelion, stand proud.
You’ll find no persecution here,
Many look down upon you,
They have not the eye for your splendour.

Unhalted by the world, you bloom.
Astounding fortitude; delicate grace
Your grandeur displayed.
A beauty misplaced,
In the concrete fortress.

A wild flower,
Life ushered by the blowing wind.  
Only tender hands can hold you,
Or off you go to bless another.

Purple and white flowers dot the landscape
And the roadways
Delicate flowers, the bunches of them
Give the allusion of pink
Everywhere I travel they grace me
I’ve never seen them before
But maybe they’ve always been there
And I’ve just never noticed

It’s a choreographed dance  
To the melody of car horns  
And jackhammers,  
The white noise of phone calls  
And conversations  
Where only money talks.

It’s called the big city shuffle.  
Your partner sits across you  
On subways, or in back alleys,  
In the opulence of a penthouse—  
Even the pigeons do it,  
If you let 'em.

We all dance different
Some limp, some shuffle so fast  
Their calves cramp—  
All lock step to the time of progress.

We shuffle in courthouses, cathedrals,  
In tenement halls and overcrowded  
Coffee shops,  
Over the trash heaps  
And broken dreams of capitalism.

Take me to the countryside—  
I don’t wanna dance.

Jealous of your heart,
The crimson coursing through it
Flows with life more precious
Than the earth whence it came.  

Under your skin; I yearn to be,
Beating with no respite.  
Let me do its labour,
These hands bathed in your life,
Stained with your love.