your fingers are worn from typing
all those times you stayed up late
just to get a glimpse
Inside the library of your heart
she hides behind the Melville and the Tolstoy
waiting somewhere behind the poets and dreamers
and the ones who are neither
yet both and the same time
Crying deep tears of a lion caged in the zoo
the small fence that seems to impossibly hold him there
he could jump it if he really wanted to
then we'd all run screaming the way we should
Quaking and dancing in the parking lot
we'd all scramble home to our TV's
and tuna salad
to our stairmasters and rusted bicycles
to our swimming pools lined green and
brushed with yellow leaves from the neighbor's elm.
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