let’s linger
bask in the growing din
in our own world
as the crowds gather
never alone
brushing by the hordes
but mindless to all else
the city fog
helps the illusion
like mist on the moors
of some novel
we ‘ll tread, not just walk
like they did long ago
exploring
eyes and ears on our story
tuning out the rest
stories on skin
so dark
was it morning or night
tangled up in sheets
it suddenly didn’t matter
he pressed forward
she was swallowed in warmth
their best work was done here
in the murky time
the pitchest black dawn
imprinting their stories
on skin
plot twists
and rhymes
spelled out with such flourish
new chapters and verses
discovered
with each brush of skin
slipping through the covers
in and out of sleep
good night, good morning
writing interrupted
life interrupts the pen
glorious, maddening
how to take the sensations
put them into words
when there were no words
for the best parts
merely grunts and groans
then eyes wide
and quiet
back to the pen
are there rhymes
for such times
go in
she showed up
stood outside the door
the alley was dark, damp
a streetlight flickered around the corner
pushing long shadows up the wall beside her
she had but to turn the rusty knob
and she’d be inside
taking in the sights and sounds
people, art, life
what was stopping her
she was stuck
feet rooted to the floor
hands hanging limply at her sides
just turn the knob
go in
Line Reading
do you have a moment
or two
to read some lines with me
I want to hear
what the poet meant
when he said
“Oh, how I crave thee”
and if it’s not asking
far too much
could we read
some more
I’d love to hear
“how I need thee”
and maybe a bit more
The Word Rummager 