Just because I can now trap a spider
between cup and paper and set it free
doesn’t mean I’m no longer afraid.
Just because I sometimes believe
in the divine doesn’t mean I don’t see
emptiness every time I close my eyes.
The man down the street
has made a home out of things
I’ve thrown out:
used retail bags, duck-taped and stretched,
keep the rain at bay, old clothes
insulate his walls and my empty wine bottles
make wind chimes that echo through the night.
I call him homeless
but the only difference between us
is his walls aren’t built to code.
Just because I can spin a seductive line
or two doesn’t mean I know
how to talk to love.
I can chatter all day,
but what do I say when love
stands naked in front of me
all hardness and need?
What combination of letters
could say anything other than
The man I call homeless,
he talks to love. I hear him
when I walk to the bus stop in the mornings.
Sometimes they argue,
but mostly I hear him cooing to love,
wrapping love in my discarded wool sweater.