so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.

it's one of those intimate,
quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling,
art (originals) on the walls,
pieces of furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place.  

maybe that's my problem.

maybe it isn't impersonal enough.  

because i can't seem to get
my feet
to move
over
the
threshold.

i'm just standing here on the street,
staring through to
                        
                                                     the other side.

on the other side
sit the group of poets
i am supposed to be joining.  
they talk easily with each other,
they share their works.  

i'm wondering at this point,
what sort of poets they are,

they are smiling,
laughing
talking easily with each other.  

these are definitely not
my type
of poets.  

i'm wondering
what kind of poetry
these easy talkers
have inside themselves.  
what could they possibly
have to say?  

probably poems about
flowers
and butterflies
and trees
and stuff.  

this is not the group for me.


i turn and walk on down the street.  

a *****, crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.

Wrapped in your smile, toes toying at the edge
Where your eyes' soft cloth blankets me,
Blocks the wind, and the cold, red brick below,
I and you, swim silent alone,
Hot and deep in a tiny, bright star,
Until turning you tug at the covers,
Dragging with your eyes this warm world,
And the cold rushes back, and the brick,
And the wind.

Noises from the street carry softly over garden walls,
Of passing cars and passersby, and I wonder;
Do you know, any more than they do,
How the corners of your lips, when they open,
Open not to show rows of white pearl,
But instead to consume my heart?

Tickle of throat.
Trickle of thought.
You leave me distraught.