He looks to his pocket
to quench his malnourished blood
and what little pride is left,
after hours of panhandling change
with an empty coffee cup.
Looking to his pocket
he finds only a hole
and remembers the day
at CVS when he shoved
at CVS when he shoved
some marker
into his pocket with haste
as not to be seen
and didn't realize
into his pocket with haste
as not to be seen
and didn't realize
he ripped its seam.
All of this absent
on the cardboard sign
he wears that reads "EXIT"
without the word.
Why I can't sleep
I want and need to be
with you, my friend.
You're all I think about,
see, feel and hope to hold and touch.
Such a large part of my life,
you've become,
that my body has come to need
you
to be sufficient.
You simply make me
who I am
and have tremendously aided
me
to become the person
I am,
which will in turn,
somehow,
enable me to be
this person
I've never been in a hurry
to become.
I'm finally here
and things are going well;
so I'm excited, anxious and overwhelmed,
for once,
about the positive possibilities,
about our lives, together--
my life with you.
So when you tell me to
spray lavender,
drink chamomile tea
or warm milk
(forget counting sheep)--
know that it's with
only you
that I
can soundly
rest,
if not sleep
to dream,
to wake beside,
to watch us grow,
to believe and read
our two stories
in one
together.
P.S. You're the reason I smile.
