NIGHT GENTLE

Stood in the doorway,

framed in dim

lighting,

the night, gentle

with

Lester Young

blowing like a

stoned

hummingbird,

she stood, crying,

quietly,

not in sadness,

she stood in the

doorway

and I wished that

I was a painter

or

composer,

she looked up,

at me,

her face wet with

our kind of love,

slowly, I moved

forward,

kissed her tears

and darkness

fell asleep.

~

SUNSET
Like she was injured,

she lay draped

over the stark sprawling

concrete landscapes

and the debris

of love,

strewn like

abandoned planets

or the memory

of slaves,

she lay exhausted,

spent,

her breath

darkening

the skies.

~

JOANNA, A POEM FOR YOU

It wasn’t the

ravages of time

or

the drugs and

alcohol

or

the harshness

of

homelessness

and

loneliness

or

the absence

of affection

or

the violence

of crazed

strangers

that killed

her,

no,

it was

life

that

took

her.