His Time,


Each day at two

the curtains call me

just to pull a pinch

and gaze next door

to your window

where rituals take place,

I do not know

what you have planned,

because that square of glass

is occupied mere seconds

then you gently slip away.


The rapture, oh the ravishing

what bliss that

could be wrought,

from heated thoughts

that broil in my mind

all set to simmer.


But nothing

could replace

the beauty of

your presence there,

sheer lust would

only cheapen

living canvas

that astounds.


Like an artist

crippled with arthritis,

who goes to galleries,

to savor all that

he once knew,

Skills that hang now

beyond his reach,

yet still the

beauty moves him,

much like it once

moved his brush.


And so I wheel

my chair up to

that corner

window pane,

to catch a glimpse

of what was once real,

and I feel whole again,

like back before

I went to war,

and left my

girl behind,

before that

I.E.D. removed

my manhood

and my legs.


Then when

your shadow's

all that's left

I let the curtain fall,

and turn to sip a brandy

with a smile 

and know that

tomorrow brings,

another glimpse

of something rare,

that makes my drab

and empty nights

a little more than

hopeless dreams,

and makes each

morning's wake 

much easier

 for me to face,


two P.M.



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