What? Are you HERE?*
She's on her phone, waiting for her suitcase.
Girlfriend, I live twenty minutes away from the

Airport. Now get your luggage and run out
Here before your roses start
Stinking.

She's through the arrival gates in five minutes.
Swapping flowers for bags and a kiss,
I cannot for my own life grasp

Her surprise. Not used to being treated
Like a woman?
She smells her roses, fresh from 7-11,

Click-clackety-clacking down the airport
Tiles with less to carry than
Ever, this day.

She answers, and I
Feel so ****
Giant.

What a drawf
World it has
Become...

His mustache twitches,
His monocle gleams,
With the tap of his cane
It's Silent.

His pea-coat is ironed,
His buttons shined,
With a wave of his hand
It's Silent.

His expression falls,
His slacks wrinkling,
With a hands to his chest
He's Silent.

Sonya stood
on the narrow balcony
of the hotel room in Paris

I lay on the bed
reading Celan poems

she was in her underwear
and bra
smoking
a French cigarette

most of the great artists
lived here
at one time or other
she said

I looked over at her
her blonde hair
touched her haunches
her tight ****
smiled at me

most yes
I guess so
I said

can we go
to an art gallery today?
she said
I love the Impressionists
this is the place
to see them

guess so
I returned to the book

where are we breakfasting?

where you like

she exhaled
that little café
on the corner is good
she suggested

you like the waiter
the guy with the Proust moustache

nonsense
it's the coffee
the cake he provides
she said

she gazed back at me
aren't you going to wash
and dress?

I nodded
after you

you're quicker
she said

she was right
ok
so I got up
and went into the bathroom
and washed
and brushed my teeth
and came out

she was on the bed
looking at the book
of poems

how do you
make sense of this?
she asked

open minded
and getting the vibe

she put the book down
and went in the bathroom

I dressed
lit a cigarette
and stood
by the window
looking down
into the Parisian street
below

I love Paris
I mused
love all this
and blew
a passing French girl
a palm blown kiss.

It never ceases to amaze me,
The way a woman can be at her most
Beautiful
Naked,

And yet feel so
Insecure; covering up with arms
Even as she tiptoes into
The

Livingroom for a
Towel to
Eclipse herself
With.

Every day with a woman
Is the one
Before
Christmas.

Standing at the gates,
His eyes on his hands.
Virgil is waiting,
For Dante to take a stand.
The keeper with a key,
The the lock of this Hell.
Dante must break on through,
To catch his maiden that fell.

So you say poems don’t sell
ain’t no buyer for your works
arduous hours of a job done well
go down the drain fetch no perks!

You’re right poems do don’t sell
though you fill them with heart’s spice
by the hour growing weary and frail
you surely can’t feel any nice!

A dollar a poem how fine it would be
add a dollar a read to it
but poems are meant to be sold just free
you aren’t to be paid for the feat!

But you’re wrong poems do sell
them the readers do buy
when to their heart your thoughts travel
and their spirit soars up sky high!

Inspector Fox felt emotionally blackmailed
his eyes blurred the first time in his life
the man cried pitifully to have the suspicion dispelled
there was motive for him to have killed his wife.

I picked her up almost from the street
you can call it love at first sight
whose fragrance in heart I always carried
showed me the way her love’s light.

If you ask if she was always faithful to me
she was and not a moment she left my side
laid herself bare and so happy were we
years passed like an endless joy ride.

Never ever, never once, I have to say
she set her eyes on any other man
happy as she was in my love all the way
as I was in my loveliest woman.

She loved not me but only my money
so would the tongues roll in mischief
how they envied that I was so lucky
our devotion to each other was beyond belief.

Behind me she slept with other men
I had to bear with many such gossip
two love doves we were crazily insane
our love was true and fathomless deep.

It hurt me Mr. Fox and I couldn’t take it anymore
those ******* spreading canards about her
so I started to love her more than before
and now must have killed her some jilted lover.

The inspector noted each word in his book
thanked him and got up to go
to give the note a good look
at home in his table lamp’s glow.

He read it once and then again and again
each line in isolation and with the rest
till he pieced together only the first lines
arrived at the confession cleverly crafted!