Dear Desire,
          Waiting on the muse,
Even money she shows.
I mean the more I want her,
The less likely she'll come.
She's probably at a gathering.
Perhaps some Uptown artist,
Turning clay into vision
Of a man's soul through his hands, while I wait like
Some **** fool
Who's the last to know.
Well, she phoned from the
Hills- I've got some food chilling,
She should never have promised. I could read it on her voice, saying a bad signal
A tenuous connection at best.
Tonight, soon I say to the empty reciever.
Ah- what are ya gunna do?
Cut off at the knees,
I prepare the meal.
I see black and white fencing
Blurring before the snow
On 45, an hour plus
Off the highway, before
I met the likes of her.
She said maybe,
I even brought chocolate.
I hear the silent hallway,
Listening for light movements, the sound of
Her keys in the door.
I dream she's here,
Stretching her legs as
She kicks off her shoes.
I look for the falling of pages,
Whisper the dreams of children,
Fall back to obscurity.
Another poet waiting for light in the lamp stand,
Shining across the wall
Deep into Sunday,
When its quiets,
In the first cool
At the end of summer.
And I'll keep the light on.
You can let yourself in.
Check the pilot on the stove,
Would you Sweet?
If not, see you Friday.
              Yours Affectionately,
                   Bubbles.