Not for you the opening bars.
Sit back, fold hands, a little smile
At the beauty of the others' notes, familiar.

Now, you feel it coming. A caress
Of knowing fingers, lips. The flute rises
To an acquiescing nod, and

As our natural state is poetry
Every single word you say or see
Can stop you. Dead.  Fingers, cursors
Hover over screens.  
Hesitant to touch the light.
The light is.
And now
You live.

Your hair pulled back to bun,
Your focus on the phone.
Head up for inspiration once,
Then quick return to frowning words.

I watch you from across the train;
An elegance of tassled shawl,
Faint scent, disdainful glance
At passing green. A sigh.

Much later in the journey,
The reply.  Temples briefly held;
A hand that comforts
And despairs.  

Those careful words that did not work.

I think many people fall in love with you.
And through you, something in themselves
They never found, or more likely, lost
In all the trying to be true.

Times trying to be better, love in turmoil.  
Find a path, to please oneself and other.  
Neither all too often.  And at

The ending of the light, contemplate
A little life, meandering to its close.  

And then there's you.

We saw someone together on TV
She was called Sunny Quick.
The camera followed as she ran - so light,
She danced - down stairs.  

We both thought - but you said it -
"Good name".  And it was so exactly
Right. The thought, the pause, the
Words. So right that I knew then.

And still do

Babies are Right.  Down cobbled streets
Is me.  
The cool desktop, the smooth pen
Is me.
The whole world

Take me to my own strange places
And show me the beauty there.  
Is that what poems are all about?
The russet leaves, the glories of the
Autumn - yes. But I want the ruins
Within - the grey dripping lassitude
Of self, that knows no good of self or other -

To feel the  sun.