As you continue, on your
Self-chosen theme, as you go on:
I relax my concentration and a vision of
Graham (the one who made the telephone)
In some benevolent form
Flashes there, where, legs crossed I sit
And makes a ‘Like’ sign and even as I watch
He smiles, waves; vanishes the window through.
Our needs are not one, as we are different; and
They range from a jerk off, to an unforeseen screw
Of an unfathomed force, to an uncalculated duration
Under sadomasochistic devices unimagined, hitherto.
And I hear you, in crisis-struck midlife, tell things
Which to any other number of your phonebook you’d do.
This is as much sympathy as I have for me; have for you.
In immaculate, varnished marbled reflection
Of a floor tile I watch as your shadow passes
As you, in my mind, crosses the living room across
The dining space, shedding back back glances.
You, who have suffered for your happiness, knows lines to draw.
You finish your story with a soft breath-fed word
And stutter and stunt till what I say is heard.
Does a nail holding half out of deadwood speak?
And what is said, after you’ve come, does it weigh of matter?
You beg for time to consider to respond the latter.