I screech and I hoot and I dance on this morning
for sunlight through the windows,
clean, cold air and
a woman.
It seems she’s content to stare into my face,
shower, go to work…
sleeze in the junk of my existence.
(Adding her junk, her big
long
red hairs.)
Now I’m content to lie on my back,
be scratched; stare at the empty ceiling.
A poet and philosopher
inside my own mind.
And in hers.
