Brushetta
The marble stairway
Winding like a snake
From my room on the second floor
To the lobby in the hotel
Which carried on out into the street
Where I would follow for city blocks.
Waiting there with the tapas and beer
Was a drunk poet,
Ready with the words to fill any empty space
With a lifetime of thought.
The verse, not unlike the architecture
Screamed aloud
Cried out to me
For it had been waiting decades
For someone to view it
To lick its breast
Penetrate the long abstinence
Of mind and body
Finally one with the forgotten thought patterns
That died with the others.
Once again to be kissed
And lay there with gently stroking fingertips
A lover
Longing to be held
Remembered
Tasted lips.
The deliverance of hope
Through the eyes of the wanted
Those often written about
Painted on sturdy canvas
In immortal bliss.
Soaked in olive oil
Each tattered step
Beloved in wisdom
Breath
A beep chance of being.
