Another bed, another lonely room,
And distant lights from people I don’t know;
A time to sit in this strange light, and gloom
Along the edge of fading afterglow

As silence sears into my sleeping soul,
Appropriate as only naught can be —
Askance is how the civil eye would view
Appellate wanderers who live like me

Attenuated to the moving thought,
At one with all that is or yet is not,
Amid the thoughts that never will converge,
Anterior to this, or any, spot

Applying all I have to try to rest,
Ascent and declination, I do best

Maybe I should have known the world had changed;
I knew the sign, I saw it everywhere —
Such portent, yes, is rarely seen, but still,
Could I have been so daft, so unaware?
A wanderer without a home or bed,
Let loose upon an unsuspecting town:
Cut free from all encumbrance and restraint
Until such time as time itself came down —
Laconic as I was, I had the words
At my command to set the world aright:
To take misfiring adjectives to task
In wrath, or maybe better yet – in spite —
On purple waves of sin and turpentine,
No rest, no peace for one who missed the sign

We have it and we lose it – it’s a crime —

  A shadow crawls across my bedroom wall
  That tells me time is passing, passing by –
  And I hear steps down some forgotten hall,
  Like time that’s ever-drawing, drawing nigh –

    For time both comes, and goes, in paradox:
    And we are fated to be watched by clocks.

  There’s time up on the wall, and on my wrist;
  There’s time upon my phone, and on TV —
  The oven and the microwave insist
  For they have their times, too, and so do we —

    For time is everywhere, and yet, nowhere:
    A thing we cannot have enough, yet share —

How much we all could do, if we had time

At rest, she still is moving in her mind –
The world is music; dancing, though, brings life —
Through sobbing, shaking nights, alone and blind,
The world is rhythm-riddled, ever rife

Another way her body’s hers to move,
To synchronize it to her restive soul —
The point that’s only hers to know, or prove,
To feel safe in complete loss of control

The little jump, the larger leap of joy;
The turn, the double spin, the quick release —
The supplication of the fair envoy,
The drums of war, the spinning wheels of peace —

The music neverheard is ever-true:
And dancers dance, because it’s what they do

The heart is hungry, always foraging
For bits of love we might find here, or there;
The world is rocked, I’m standing on the edge,
Between my search and general mal de mer —

I’m mesmerized by opal, black, and teal,
And somewhere past control of how I feel –
The calendar says warmth will soon return,
But in my depth, I feel the summer’s burn

There’s sapient delight, somewhere, I guess.
But that is not the kind I ever find;
Instead, I’ve jettisoned my better mind
For tastes that leave me bits less ravenous

Environments of rooms and corridors
Predation that awaits dumb foragers

Please tell me now how I can look my best,
And how Marvel is better than D.C. —
I must hear you (to blazes with the rest)
On how the toxic cleanse changed history.

And how unscientific people are
Who do not have your liberal arts degree;
And how all class distinctions would be gone
If people only drank this herbal tea.

And how the greatest workout is the plank,
And how to use Alexa to clean house,
And why all matrimony’s slavery,
And how to tell a mere tick from a louse.

If I’d more time, I’d love to hear you share,
But I must be — um, really, anywhere.

I’ll bet you didn’t know you’re beautiful,
Although I’m just one man, one set of eyes,
And I’m not after anything. But I
Have seen you gently, strongly improvise

To deal with all the hardship that you face;
And yet you shine, like pure and distant stars
That hold their truth through cold reaches of space,
And teach more than a thousand seminars.

I’m barely more than stranger, that is true:
But these few days, I’ve seen so much of you,
There’s grace in every single thing you do,
And even in the things that you… eschew.

I hope you find a happy life, and full –
For you’re a melody – you’re beautiful.

I heard you humming some old lonesome song
And saw the distant yearning in your eyes;
I knew you would be gone before too long
For I have come to know, and realize
That you’ve a heart that never seems to fit,
And you can love, but only for a bit.

The tribe of yearners: your inheritance;
The wanderers and seekers after love –
Accused of flimsiness or decadence,
Your must reach past, beyond, or just above
Whatever or whoever might be there
For newer climes, or maybe fresher air —

The comedy – you say it isn’t me –
The warning zone – for soon I’ll be alone.