Bench

But just possibly,
I could sit with you on that bench again
I would sip my hot coffee
I would breath the city air
I would wink a sexy wink
The one that is painted magnificently white,
That sits on Houston Street.
I would hold your hand in mine there
I would bring my hand to my lips
And blow you a kiss
Whisper, I never want to leave this bench
You know the one that is surrounded,
By stores full of
little Buddhas, postcards, and burning incense

 

Dead Trees

The floorboards below me
are as dead as the trees they once were,
they lie flat, hundreds running parallel,
their grains intersecting the straight lines.

The trees below me are merely dead wood
with only the warmth of a rug to cover them.
We live amongst the trees
with our walls and floorboards.
Humanity’s inside jungle,
insisting to bring the out into the in.
And, supplying enough immensity
to carry all who stand on you.

So natural you lie under me,
like a flattened oak.
If only I could fold you back up,
give you water,
tell you that I notice you,
thankful that you hold me up.

The floorboards below me,
you are so grounded.
Don’t ever fallout beneath me.