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I keep an old matteress in my office,

it is there that I go to rest.

I lie down among the many stained coffee cups

and overflowing ashtrays that also lie neglected on the floor.

I pull an old quilt over by body and stare into space- looking

at nothing in particular- but chain smoke until the smoke of

my cigaretts hide me from the one that keeps me hooded to his wrist

like a falcon or a kite on a string. And I am as a kite that soars high

enough to hide behind a cloud...

Somrtimes, I trun my smoke into a bird of prey, a falcon, an owl,

and sometimes that of a she wolfe.

One day his brown hands will  reach through the smoke and get me,

and only my aungished cry will pierce throught the smokey haze with

the dark knowledge of my body's betrayal to the heart.

He will catch my cries in his hands like stones to store them inside a box

to sort through later, and to fling them back at me in words-

I who have a warrant out on my own heart- one day will be arrested

and locked away behind the gray walls of his mind. 

There I will be a woman child and write girfetti on old store-fronts, stone

walls, and bridges...