A poem with no title

He ponders the relevancy of payphones,

and of all the things he currently owns.

She pays heed to the sound of her own moans,

as they echo from within the hollow valleys

of her cheekbones.




He struts his stuff like a dilettante

and she behaves like a debutante, with

her hair cut real short, like that of

a flapper.

He disposes of an empty candy bar

wrapper.




She ponders the stringency of old zen koans,

and compares it to killing a bird with two stones.

He's been staring at the ceiling, he's all alone,

thinking clocks should mark time not in hours

but in aeons.




Still, she struts her stuff like a debutante,

while he behaves like a dilettante, event

hough in the robes of a king he passes as

a beggar.

She closes the shutters against foul

weather.