she knows. I'm sure she knows.

every day of the week,
I'm there for her, so to speak.
my order consistent, my appearance reliably persistent.
her compatriots behind the counter
even made up a name for me and my order!

"senor dos cubanos, por favor,"

i wait till she is free, always, before ordering.
they all sly smile at the foolish old man,
who requires only a certain young lady from Cuba,
to make his daily shots, just so, so fussy he.

please! no sugar needed,
her demure mouth,
sweet plenty.  

they know.  i'm sure they all know.

the olive complexion,
the hair pulled back so tight,
beneath a ridiculous uniform hat,
the slender frame radiating pride
all of which she wears so well,  
with a modest hint of self made pride.  

working her way up in America.

two coffees, extra milk, in a plastic bag
to travel with me, back to my imprisoning day desk.

she hands me the bag oh so carefully.
our fingers touch.  our fingers much touch,
with the oft, quick but sensitive precision
of a baton passing
in an Olympic relay race.  
she smiles.  always.  

it's ridiculous.   i'm ridiculous.  who cares.  
that one contactual second is a gift,
the thrill is not gone.*

and that is why he writes
only love poetry

the fool in love, or the fool
who pines for it?*

have I not sat at the King's table,
for decades of eons, eons of millennia,
the mealy taste of the poverty of loneliness,
made the sweetbitter
and the meaningless
blander still
full surrendering to slow starvation of my
humanity

denied the rise and set,
the watch and the calendar,
the sundial inoperable,
masters of none,
there are distinguishing marks
upon this victim,
who no longer recalls refusing
love

just another dusty bust
of a man tough as
plaster

the mask of
going it alone
so well adhering
no longer masked
but his first skin

unlike him,
love poems
waterfall self-destructing,
suicide by self-erosion
and thereby
an everlasting guarantee
the answer be
he
who pines
and dies a little bit
daily

rose at the wee three hour,
to verify the factual, "they" have cancelled
this particular Tuesday in NYC due to celestial inclemency
named
ma Bella Stella

the guv and the mayor,
a creator's doctored note received
from the supreme being of their choosing,
** ** **, whaddya know, we city folk and grownup kids get a day off,
cause we got a special kind of cold, called a nor'easter

sho'nuff, an atmosphere perusal
shows a whiteout sensual ensual,
through a sleepy bedroom window,
visible the commencement of 18,
maybe 24, inches, can't be too sure

but it's all about safe over sorry which is why,
really good poets rewrite a new poem countless times

rose at the wee three hour,
a snowy add-on found to our raging winter,
a poem~note^ from you, patty girl,
about transition and juxtaposition
which leads me here, here being on the
writing couch roundabout the now wee hour of four

for the juxtaposition of the blizzard external
and your early-morning poetic missive
has transitioned to blizzard inferno internal,
visible the commencement of 18,
maybe 24, lines, with poetry, one can't be too sure

you can lead a horse to water but not make him drink,
you cannot lead a poet to certain words without making him think,
you phrased me a phrase, so consequential, guilty you are of
robbery in the first degree, stealing my mind in furtherance
no mas sleep

the providence words you provided shot off
so many alt-poem routed roots that I must now provide
a trigger warning to you dear reader, that I am near to
dangerously drowning in an internal blizzard of very
l e n g t h y poem possibilities

transition and juxtaposition

dumbstruck

are not our entire lives consistent of transitions
by the elemental random juxtaposition of
consequential accidental, just happen to happen happenings

to all my friends here,
how did our juxta-wooded paths happen to cross
we are citizen~strangers of the planet
Never Met
who exchange secrets and confidences as if we,
transitional, friends but, of one family born

dumbstruck

now past the five,
my torrential impulse powered thoughts
have slowed to tortoise speed
and someone has mercy on my soul
calls me back to the
snowed-in blissful bed

but this my parting pattyshot

if i ever get the shoulder tap,
"kid,would you like to update the
Five Books?"^^

I know instinctually intuit,
the first book, no more
Genesis

the first chapter of the
nattyman version
**Transitions and Juxtapositions