April is Poetry Month

she and me



Like filthy pigeons, we huddled
atop the cold metal
of the warm subway grate.
Hand up, handouts, we waited
while we wait. Most walk by.
she shared
her beer and
her body. She took me in
for a time, she
had a room.
Her home
little more than a door
separating by-the-week rubbies
from her possessions.
A toaster oven,
a lucite radio,
of paperbacks.
The guitar.
A musty cot, our nest
for those seven, eight weeks.
Milk stayed cold on the windowsill,
pressed against
frosted glass.
She shared her warmth, and sensibilities.
She busked, I begged.
Until I felt I was above this.

©2010 j.g. lewis


This month is all about poetry.
Something new every day.

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