this evening

as i look out of my window

i say;


10,000 people could be 1 person,

a flock could be a single bird,

one breath left could be a lot of living,

the parked car could be going too fast,


and all your shouting

could never make

a song.

Saturday sidewalks are filled by the youthful,
the boys with young muscles and hard heads,
the girls with soft skin under short skirts.
They wander sidewalks in search of escape.
Each of them dance with lust,
drink hard,
and inject madness
into their veins.

On Sunday mornings,
after the splendor of uninhibited release,
the young weep in regret of poor choices,
their air saturated in reality.

Sidewalks then belong to the wise
who wake from a good rest.
These men and women drink roasted coffee,
reflect on a transcendent spirituality,
read great poetry,
and meet friends to discuss
the roots of democracy.

Every year, the unchanging concrete slabs
of sidewalks appear slightly different.
They reflect our perspectives.
Sidewalks that once led to freedom,
now lead to enlightenment.
In future years,
these same sidewalks
will lead to rest.

I want someone who will comb my hair
Because he knows I like sensation of the bristles on my scalp and neck
I want someone who will never leave me dancing alone
And I'll never have to dance by myself to another Stevie Wonder song
We'll cook buttery pasta and put too much cheese on our sandwiches
We'll cure eachother's sadness with a single loving stare
That someone will come along
But for now I wait