Found

There are dozens.

Unearthed.  Scrappy.

I open the door.

Some try to get out.

Casanova figure-eights,

makes love to my boots.

Fat one naps in a hammock,

another watches from the eaves.

Then there is you.  Waiting.  

I practice this moment in my head,

half-remembered.  Silent.

Nostalgia draws us, deliberate,

as if we have always.

I hold you, feel the scratch.

Look in your melancholy eyes.

Tell me everything.

I like to be sad.

tk/July 2014


Beautiful poignant read from R.A.D. Stainforth... 

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Kensington

There were paving stones,

a menu in a glass case,

steps descending.

You were with her,

smoking among checkered tables,

trembling candles.  Wine.

Our eyes met over shoulders,

forkfuls of spaghetti. 

Her back to me, his to you.

It didn't matter what you were saying.

Your occasional smile spoke

between gestures.

I wondered:  which flat

you would return to; if you had a cat;

what album you would choose.

Had I known it was you

I would have stopped for a kiss

on the way out.

tk/ May 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth...if he only had a cat... *giggle* 

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*painting by Edward Hopper, 1922