Notes on an Old Man

He realized he wasn't Beauty,
but the ravager of beauty:
the dirty old man
rubbing against beauty
pinned in the drunken,
dank doorway.
And he realized he wasn't time,
but was the remnants of time.
He was the one left behind,
languishing
tattered and grey.

On love.

The easiest part is waking up first,

With my head on their chest, my knees curled up to their legs.

That is the only time I think I have ever believed in love,

On any man’s shoulder with

Some soft morning light filtering in

I always think, “I could stay here forever.”

I always kiss that shoulder, softly

Without looking and

Dig out up my shirt and underwear

And leave.