Thursday, February 7, 2008

A Response

After a lark
with a stranger
it grows earthy in the room
and our bodies stretch out
Rich tones, dew shine, a draft
dries the sweat

a day laborer hammers the
brownstone across the street
It wakes us up
and I can’t help but think
there is somewhere
and someone
I was supposed to be

In a sleepy confusion, she mocks my misstep
"You fool,” she laughs
“Those men don’t have enough money to be someone else”

It is quiet in the room
It has become so cold that I try to feign sleep
so I don’t have to
deal with
waking up in the afternoon