When home feels like
a hotel and
forcing water down
like its wine in a glass,
warmed by a MDF fireside-
you know your real bed
is a world away.

Cars that laugh
wait at the lights,
as they become
just another set of traffic,
set into the night-time tarmac.

Hello chimneypots and aerials,
the birds sitting on the rooftops,
window ledge, hello to you too
and to the flower *** that sits atop you-
hello.

You don’t have to wait
in line behind the boys in the band,
just to kiss that one girl’s hand.
Birds, you know nothing of the
subtleties of the relationship. Our
legs can’t fly in like yours, swoop
a female off her feet to
reside in your nest for one night.
How we have to learn the ways
of the woman, find out their likes and dislikes,
what flowers they enjoy and not hate.
Aerials, you’re strong willed and
stay tall in all weathers. All that channels
through you are the fake love affairs
that show up on pixelated squares.
Chimneypots, how I want to be you-
to smoke all day and still last a lifetime.
I’d be around for a century or two
and see suns, skies and moons
both come and go-
get destroyed by man
and his Average Joe.

“I wish that I could see the light,
before you put the blinds down
on the edge of night”

She packed an overnight bag
for her next day flight
back home to somewhere
where climate exists,
another girl from the Tennessee state, kissed.

Appalachian Mountain eyes
with summit mist
smokers eyes,
deep brown pupils
drowning among the whites of her eyes:

*it’s the eyes that I remember, as well as our last encounter in street-alley December.

A leer leapt across his face,
it was not a surf smirk
that rolls up from coral cheeks,
but a snide smile that
surprised everyone there.

Coffee shop stopped and halted,
for this man fell to his knees
and asked to wed,
a girlfriend of small brunette proportions,
whom sat next to him
basking in good fortune.

Golden orbit
of metal bound
and knit,
graced her finger, slipped
down the knuckle,
fused to the skin
as every buckle ever worn.

For these two would make it,
sworn to mourn when the other fell.

Your clouded mind breeds frantic thoughts,
Your starved body poses queer answers

Your vision,
eclipsed by the darkest of clouds,
strains to witness the gleaming sun
they promise rests on the horizon

They’ve become immune to the horror of it all,
deeming your story trite,
ceasing to listen,

But ill be here with hand-cupped ears,
absorbing your every last utterance
of doubt and fear