Staring at the Rain

If every drop on that pane is alert,
aware of its own existence,
does it forget when it becomes
part of something more important?

When the melding takes place,
does the raindrop reliquish first its time,
minutes of sleep and solitude when
loneliness threatens to sink in?

Then, perhaps, gains interests that it
never knew it had?
After all, what is the harm of
watching the occasional hockey game?
Now and then.
Now and then.

The raindrop, without its sense of time,
also begins to forget its location.
All water is one living entity.
Home loses its edge.
Then, perhaps, our little droplet misplaces other things.
Like religion or tradition or gender roles.
Because, in the end, love is fluid.

Things I Do To Forget That I Miss You

Counting the syllables in this line
is like counting waiting room cups of coffee
or Tennessee license plates on the highway
or doors on the left of the hallway.
It's all leading up to, down to
across town to something that's distant future.

-aside-
I asked where you would travel
if the world would let you go anywhere,
but my answer, darling, is wherever you are.
If you wanted, I'd buy a big flower pot
to plant my roots in
and load it into the back of your car.

So, instead, I read endless science fiction series
and write offbeat poetry
and fold laundry and think about the treadmill.
I sleep without snuggling,
converse without laughing,
and eat without being fed.
I'm half-tired, half-mad
and completely lonely without you.

Whiskey and Women

I thought that telling you would be
like drinking whiskey straight,
hard as Hell to stomach but warm and-
fuzzy on the deep end.
I thought that courage was a word
that could be gained in centimeters
and vaulted with speech.

Before I spoke those words,
I was taking shots from your lips,
and they were smooth and easy.
Not green liquor but aged in the bottle
of my adoration.

From what I can tell of women,
a group, of which, you are the pinnacle.
Loving them burns more than
the fumes from the distillery.