i)
moving a couch:
our labour pained
by darkened skies.

ii)
smoky room and the long long couch
-- freshly moved,
a multi-hued curvy affair of fabrics, orange & salmon
my old man, the artist & i all sit, cigarettes between fingers
talking.
gives us two paintings, his, for the help.
sitting in the livingroom now while they
talk &
looking out onto the street
clicking a lamp on & off.
two girls see the light blinking,
look up,
wave for me.
so i go down the steps and they ask
if i *know the artist. if i paint??
"i play with words."
--won't i please read them something??
having moved the couch just then, i read them "couch"
-- poem of the summer previous
(furniture on the brain?)
wringing their hands they use words like
great !
enveloping !
eclectic pittr-patt'ring of your words !
-- at this turn away, quoting b. dylan:
"it's very tiring having other people tell you how much they dig you."
instead of standing in the doorway offer
to buy them
                      coffee.
(they greedily accept sans even a blink -- the leeches!)
make 'em wait while i light another cigarette.
& once in cafe
they don't have much of interest to say so
i take my cup and go
sit on the artist's roof.
        
      dig that
          sunset ! ...