Monday, June 21, 2010


The dirty man comes forward.
This morning, again, he smudges
my window. I will smash him to bits,
I say, again.

I look at his hands and face – bruised,
sliced. They never heal well…wounds
always carry day dreams or worse.
He searches for mine, but I won't
look in his eyes.

He will have nothing that belongs
to me.

I cannot sleep at night – my bedmate
lurches like a poisoned stomach,
gasping between snores what sounds like
“Aghast! Aghast!”

The car is pristine in the morning.
I will take a different route, I say, again.

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