Sitting on a straight-backed armless wooden chair
moved from the kitchen table to the living room
beside an open window facing west,
the sitter’s face is half-hidden by an evening shadow
rendering features vague
if not unrecognizable. Hands clasp,
unclasp, clasp, feet flat to the floor.
A book lies open, facedown on the hardwood floor.
Next to it, a tipped over glass.
From outside the window, a sound;
it’s nothing. Nobody is looking out
nor does anyone look in.
Just rain tapping the sill.
In the far corner a cardboard box
of books, red, blue, green, all colors.
The sides bulge; unpacked, the box
has been there for years.
In five hours it will be Wednesday.
In eleven hours, daybreak.
Wine & Cheesy
Don’t leave. Stay a while.
At a social function last night,
wine and cheese,
I propositioned two women
who both said Yes
after much wine.
One married, one single.
I lied about my age;
so did they.
Exaggerated my capabilities;
so did they.
Cheryl and Shelly
are their names.
Only one of them
After having sex with his secretary or another co-worker (but usually his secretary) in his mostly private and fairly soundproof yet accommodating office, it’s his habit to walk down the seven flights of stairs to the street level, jaywalk to the used bookstore and select a children’s book to read, always fully illustrated with bright colored drawings of pre-schoolers at play with yellow tops, red pants or skirts and running over green grass with happy faces. He then goes next door to the independent coffee shop and slowly turns the pages, running his hands over the primary-colored illustrations, and drinks a large cup of black coffee while sitting at his favorite corner table. He does this once a week or so, on a Tuesday or Wednesday. When he leaves he sticks the book into the magazine rack for others to enjoy.