My words are homesick for the writing.

A scrap of paper,

A railway ticket,

A napkin,

Or a cast,

Is all that’s needed to save my words,

And bring them home to last.

 

Crying in the shower.

It’s not as poetic as

Crying in the rain.

Still the tears are lost in water

Though they’re sucked on down the drain.

 

Sitting with Coffee

The odd cry

The metered step

The gurgle of voices high

And low

 

The warm hand

The curving smile

A cup of coffee