I have notebooks of half-finished poems
and stories and sketches
sitting vacant on the furniture and table
staring accusingly with black ink eyes
at my lack of ability to end what I started
and midst the scribbled lines and stuttered words
Your name – written as if in schoolboy crush
and pages with wet salt stains ruining
the look of the pages
I have half-finished songs, littering my guitars with
trash and thrash and undone chords
I found a piano, and I would sleep on the couch
just to give it room
and it’s a thing of beauty
and I would play Rachmaninov and Chopin and Debussy
and freestyle jazz for hours on end
but that baby grand is out of reach
even as my fingers ache to caress its keys
it’s a loving touch – that running of fingers over
glorious sound
but I cannot afford or move
such an instrument of beauty
any more than I could
afford or move the beauty of you

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