on this bed of straw
the answer that I have
dreamt of and
felt in my momentary grasp
the balls of my feet
sanding away at the parched adobe
pondering
transposing to a lower key
the tempo
away from the flapper’s jitterbug
into the sultriest waltz
I dont weep for fame
it never was envious of me
its parlor games
so practiced in the mirror
the who of it all
so void of an honest kiss
a kiss whose tongue
never speaks to its heart
because they have
different shopping lists
creating salvos
instead of the art
that used to stem from
a hot fire
I sink into
I breathe into
this bed of straw

© Tom Watters  8/17/06