"What does it matter what you say about people?"

back when
the weakest one'd rush home
to borrow her roommate's diaphragm
week after week
hiding in her room listening to
"bye, bye, miss American Pie"
and "Vincent"
and they painted over the side of the building
years later with advertising
that made the place look ghetto
...and the writer
made voices outside the living room
(like that room in Italy where dons
could whisper
conspiracies of history)
like the queen of Judea
and we lived in the white room
with the white Buddha set on the sill
waiting for the bed to grow wider
and find my nightmares coddled
by your patience for years
them cops was going to get me

for nothing years on end
and the piano player
playing her solitary affair
watching the cat seducing pigeons
one bird at a time
with her calico purring
it doesn't end the years we grew into
who we'd become...even if we did.
even if his green floor would
silently dry months later
and he'd go off to New Hampshire
to tend bar after leaving prep school
to live with us

to live with us...memories
merely need to take a touch
of nothing ever goes away, huh.

A good read, Pete.

Les

Thanks, Les.

I look forward to reading the next poem you post.

Peter