I write because you're out there
living your life of
newspaper print
and fleece
of wind breaking
navy,
blue
and black umbrella
rain

Where you walk from
steel grey
up
stairs and stairs
of
paisly velvet,

you

and you're behind
your desk again
glasses on the bridge of your
nose again
statues folding
against your wall
again
and me peering past
the crack in the
door again

a knock,
and you're mine

for five moments,
you're mine

for Greek
and for Roman
and for Latin,
you're mine.

If only your French
wasn't so good
and I didn't run
like a fox
in the night.