[poetry has always been the warning and the gift.]

my toes brushed over
you wiped out on the ground
not really trying
but not really wasting away
into a bitterness
where i could no longer
speak to you as a friend.

as a lover?

no, lover.
no love.

what is this pittance, and
for who do you pay?

perhaps my tongue is only
sweet and singular
and perhaps it will not speak
in doubled tones
with tripled beats
another feat
where you will always take it
as you will
where maybe
you should just take it, from me.

on the down and out
the sidewalk felt nice against her cheek
it was rough and the gravel imbedded
a soulful impression
into the skin
red with such imperfection.

she was appreciative.
she was amused.

joyful and singing.