From my front porch, I see
The moon is loving his spot in the sky.
You notice I'm loving his spot in the sky.
"Pay attention, honey!"
I feel sorry.
She says something to me
and I don't hear it
and as she starts her next sentence,
the smoke she took in
as if it was waiting til she spoke again.
I forgot she's talking.
The smoke hugs her planned face
and I'm lost in her words.
But are her words as planned
as how she tries so hard with her face?
Well, her and I read Thoreau and Poe
to recognize how to listen to each other
and not get distracted by
of what's happening.
She diffuses her clove's red Hot
and I hear it
become dead and tossed into the ash tray.
This gives tomorrow morning a true account of
what we did last night.