When there is one who wants,
and the another one wants
is treading and stomping
in the way of blurred
busy-ness just by
walking in hurried cirles
with clip board in hand,
away from some old
rediscovered over drinks and
grilled food at a beach restaurant,
or puckery, soft touchy
warmness that suggests
there is enough to write something
and clean and rearrange the kitchen.
The red bricks
were warmed from the sun and softened
the sound of a jet plane high above
that slipped through the thin clouds
and there was
a dark purple swallow
that hit the neighbor’s window and
fell through the lines of drying clothes.
Inside, the shiny floors smelled like lavender
and ammonia and
he asked her a question
while they were on the couch
because he saw her eyebrows move in that way again
and she twitched and
reached for her keys on the coffeetable.
His head felt loose and painless on her soft leg.
He breathed in a breath like the gulp of a cold gin drink.
“Can’t I lay my head on your lap like this, or what?” he asked.
“No.” She said.
He got up from the couch and
tried to light an old cigarette
in the ashtray,
and she left
and she didn’t close the front door all the way. He could hear
her keys and heavy footsteps
through the hallway and down the stairs.
He rubbed his
thought of her long black boots
and her breasts.
He looked out the window and walked over
to see outside.
At the thin cloud
and then down at the swallow
on the ground,
which had a wing that stuck out
still twitched in little nervous death throes.
It had left a mark of blood
on the hanging, yellowed slip of the old woman in 2A,
in the morning as she walked
with a warm baguette
back to her over-carpeted flat.
He smiled and thought of the volcano he saw on the news,
and how the hot flow
the tinder-like houses and palm roofs of some Hawaiian town.