You strumming your guitar,
While I play my Irish whistle,
A beautiful and strange duet,
Filling the air,
Turning heads here and there,
For now,
What could I have to regret?

Then, another speaks,
Stops the music,
Reality hits,
Then it come creeping back,
The anxiety,
The worry,
Out of nowhere;
RING!

Walking swiftly away,
For some reason,
Glancing back,
Seeing you looking back at me,
Then I turn, run a bit,
Hide in the crowd,
Fearing that if I look back,
You'll catch up,
Asking me if it were true;
If I've been thinking about you...

- Jay M
April 12th, 2019

Home was once upon a time ,
a place so safe so calm ,
the remedy for the sick ,
a place to stop and rest ,

but now its only four walls ,
holding up an old roof ,
who knows what these walls have heard ?
what the roof has seen ?

A place so far from what you imagine ,
its not my serenity nor is it divine ,
but did the walls get thicker ?
or the people changed ?

Did the roof decide to be unkind?
or the sarcasm got into me ?
Do the walls block me out ?
or the stubbornness of the dwellers ?

This home was built with bricks ,
and it stands today with the same bricks so tall ,
its not the wall or roof or door ,
the people bring the feeling .

Sometimes I perch you
       on my shoulder.

I ask you to read
        my newest poem

look inside my soul
        and tell me

        everything

The cloth bazaar was quietly breathing rest.

I was scanning rows of hangers for summer shorts
picking up here and there
dresses without skeletons
smiling in the revelation
why skeletons don't need shorts.

I found a poem in one of those hangers
**** with no words
begging me to drape it with some
enough to make it one summer shorts.

Something welled up in my eyes
bare as the poem and as true
and thinking of it
I bought summer shorts
not one but two.