The Frenchmen sleep

under canopies of steel

holding back the heat

and the things that reel

The Frenchmen sleep

as their masks deepen

love becomes brutal

and saints are weeping

The Frenchmen sleep

as swallows hold windows secure

feeding babies as we broil

this is how the sleek endure

The Frenchmen sleep

in houses of turmoil

blades from within or abroad

the blood of hate makes fertile soil

The Frenchmen sleep

as its captors’ ration pain

extracting pounds for every ounce

and leaving monuments to explain

The three of us walked the paths

each at a different pace

we sensed your hesitance

and metered your taut grace

I don’t know about getting old

it’s ignored and indiscreet

minutes counting down

demand little like a thief

We flowed from path to room

the cool contrasting with the heat

and wandered rooms of neon

struggled with their weight

We sat upon the swings

warned we’ll never leave

looking out on Bowers’ sign

flashing hope amid the grief

In an adjacent room a piano sat

beckoning to be played

as I sat, lost in thought

notes formed, a memory relayed

A nursery rhyme from another summer

lost girl, skipping stones

helping others, but not herself

carrying the weight alone

I fought the magic of that moment

feeling at sea as I sway

judging the universe

as the tears begin their fray

We sought the city calling it

our home, like Christians

heading for Rome

we hack away the

forest to build our multi

purpose abode

the home settles and

floorboards separate we fill

the space where we embrace

and begin our days with coffee

cups – mated by size and

wanderlust

at night we enfold in a

bed where we touch

as silenced light is told

with the door propped, letting

the night world enter, as

ovations and drama unfold

we don’t wish to exclude,
inviting instead to

join us in the durable bed

the creak of a door or surprised

shriek of a guest becomes

a star in the arc of our rest

those that stream through

our door allows the bending

of what came before

we begin in one place

and the dream resets,

tales turn as tasks offset

awakened by the city – drifting

deeper into the cracks,

crevices a tarmac where

we sleep to warp the life

we want and struggle through

that which we abhor