ps, reps to the one who knows the dirty old man allusion I AM that figure- shadowed, peering, alone. They stuff and shove me into the unlit back corners where I wait and hope. Don't be alarmed, I am not that dirty old man. I do not wear a badge of bad intentions, I hang on razor edges hoping to share passing glances with her, around each side street, inside the bistros. Forgotten is ignored put kindly. Falling in fuck would have been easier, less complicated. Our pleasantries would then turn to resentment, we would fade apart, simple and satisfying. Instead we slip close then push away like oceanic tides, like Fathers and Sons at THAT age, like unsure lovers. Men enter her life like windfall cash, and are spent just as easily. If I could only get close enough, I would stay, holding tight with anchored aspirations on every one of her shallow breaths. A stranger shouldn't feel this familiar, like your favorite jeans or returning home. Maybe I'll see her again, still disconnected and rushing, unaware that she is closer to me than God. We might pass small talk like hand me down clothing, careful and contrived to maintain our safety. We are fearful to show our naked personalities, exposed to see each quirk and imperfection. We use starched dialogue and rushed conversation, but when I do see her it makes the next day worth living. --- and a brief older poem i wrote in october while waiting for someone to meet me "October" September has emptied her sun kissed joy, and we are left with dark nights and sparse gardens. Not yet into winter's depression, we test October's chilled pool with stiffened toes. Ribbons of wind wrap our flesh taut, and the moon's emptiness radiates our bones. The leaves I see are brittle and frail. With time their protruding veins will go limp, letting go then descending to the ground. Some will fall gracefully, waving to and fro as a final goodbye as others rage, rising up violently in struggle, falling to the earth still and silent nonetheless.