love poetry

You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.

Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.

At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still

Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.

a man sits together with a woman on the stone bench near the rails. his eyes stroke the curls she absolutely will not brush from her face. the dirty blond curls, more waves than curls. the tips of the curls are almost white, still bleached from the summer. this is winter, waiting together for the blue line in washington. the metro never takes very long. it hovers to rest with a spaceship electronic whine. the woman runs her finger through her hair and behind her ear, keeping all but one long strand from again falling into her eyes. the man is young, but older than the woman.

she wears a green cardigan over a cotton shirt, tucked into heavy jeans. she wears tan leather work shoes. chunky tomboy urban wear. she has always dressed like this, even when in the office. soft translucent skin, moist and white. hints of blush in the cheeks. rough denim and soft skin. golden hair and golden wires holding her glasses on. he is bigger than she. he is wider and much taller. bearded. ruddy. heavy. with curious eyes that look at her, then the train.

he moves slowly, carefully for his mass is dangerous to others if unchecked. unchecked movement, even friendly claps, may throw another against a wall. They sit so that their knees touch. not from love but from comfort. because they have known each other for so long and can speak or move with ease. because they are friends. he scratches his beard and runs a hand through his hair. its to his shoulders uncut and dark brown. black jeans. steel toed boot, scuffed and brown.

there is an urban state of mind. more in common with each others, these cities. chicago, new york, washington. no different these cities from paris or london; rome or berlin. san francisco and toronto, the same. even saint petersburg shares a metro with singapore. and in the metro we wait together for the train to come to rest, opening the stainless doors. like in any city, cleaner than most.

sitting before the screen later, i will smell the dank air, see the sprung third rail. wait until the lamps at my feet flash in unison.

i notice her glasses. gold wire rimmed spectacles with a medium prescription. at the end of her powerful nose. blue eyes hidden behind. and she is sad often these days. sad for days before. like me, never having gotten over college.

still sipping coffee from a big plastic mug from au bon pain. steamy java in the grad class. professor winston napier. african american literary theory. sitting, fingering the xerox baraka, the xerox bam, the thick copies of out of print afrotext and the buzz buzz buzz of the blues men, the jazz funk earthy cool, sitting with the big boys, the intelligencia, the ebony tower. sitting there sipping a 40 of french roast and watching the leaves fall outside.

The sky took the morning. Birds tore small holes in the quiet. The air remained cool, but not for long. It still kept us under the covers. Her breathing remained slow and rhythmic.

I, awake for nearly an hour, didn't know how to get out of bed without waking her. We had been awake together only three hours ago, here. We were new lovers. I did not dare to move as I didn't know her sleep as well as I knew others'. I knew I would doze again, but I hadn't the patience to wait.

The red block LED of the digital clock burned into my eyes. My stare slowed time. The morning failed to wax and I laid there for hours waiting for her to stir, not wanting myself to be the cause.