at_the_bookstore
pushpins that man with dirty hair
that rolls in tangles
a myriad of cylindrical messes
-unkempt on purpose-.
That man with the eyes
the blue skys
in which no kites take flight,
they've got a rainbow
(shades of blue and gray)
of troubled memories.
But they speak to me.
snippets of a poem
flash in the corner of my eye.
I stole a quick glance at you
at the bookstore.
and you smiled at me
with promises in those skies.
they didn't tell me lies.
they did not tell me lies.
you said "babydoll, i know"
and "honey bunch, I've been there"
with a kind sort of empathy,
and a knowing
in your smile.
the pearly white smile
with neatly crooked teeth
whispered into my skin
or we pretended that it would.
and you said
"darling it will be ok for you"
and
"you're gonna make it through".
its the men with silent words
the mysterious shadows
that casually chase them through
lonely nights on beaches.
its those males
with that strange tired look to them.
Its them.
its they who pay attention
who breifly breathe into my life,
who live for me for one second
when i happen to bump into one at a bookstore. 		020325
what's it to you?
who go 		blather
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