Walked past, by your place today,
in the neighborhood, you know, scouting poetry
at a bum academic show of a score of miserable poets' ego.
I looked up at your gently glowing windows
in whose light you work and share your art, expecting nothing.
At the outdoor market once, expecting street domestic garb, I couldn't find you;
but then, your beauty wrapped in glamorous dress and elegant style
shone out, not of vanity, but care.
One evening in that light I witnessed artistic being amongst
those who share your practice who shared
their talent, music, movement, and delighted in your voice.
We kissed to a soft romance several evenings there,
chatted, shared, explored --
even learned to float a perfect soft-boiled egg on water --
respectful admiring and parting, each to dream alone.
One evening, I saw you wave good night
from that perfect windowlight, and blew you a kiss,
not desiring or expecting it would be my last.
