You know
(don't you, my friend?)
that life is not
the house down the street
(with blueberry blue siding
and a white wraparound porch)
nor is it
the threadbare condo
with its whitewashed walls
and linoleum floors.
It is your attic,
or your basement,
bare wires poised to punish
your careless groping.
And it is your closet
(but only in the dark)
with the nails never pounded
tbo lunt-head safety
and the wire hangars twisted
(because that's art these days).
But scorn me as you may
(do I do you injustice?),
I cannot help but miss
your attic basement closet
because
what is love
but to hurt
and be hurt?
Meanwhile sheets
are white without you;
Erstwhile fleets
can't help but doubt you
reality is thin
as watered gruel.
All my charms
and melancholy--
black and blue
both come to folly
to you am I nothing
but a tool?
But lives are monochrome rainbows,
shades of diffracted gray,
apt to flee at the first question...
or even if you look away.