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,
anticipating
two P.M.
©-MFB III