Love Awaiting

Walking the city,

camera in hand,

he snaps here,

multiple clicks there,

montage-flowing subtleties,

images of love en masse filling his head.

Later…

His one room comes alive,

a window shuttered,

a door locked,

a typewriter never sleeping,

a sheet of paper,

a chair,

his bed.

His single light bulb

sways gently from above,

giving movement across

collage-walls,

a poor man’s silent talkie,

his company those in love surrounding him,

appreciating his neighbors,

respecting lovers he passed,

revering city homes he framed.

Eagerly

With a modest glass of Gallo as companion,

he toasts them all,

smiles in thanks,

sits and celebrates the special aloneness

for this is his time,

the time when eyelids close to shield

his dream adrift.

Shutting off the light,

he closes his eyes,

slips into that realm

just beneath his dream,

for he loves her as the darkness loves other secrets,

protected between shadow and soul,

where growth patiently waits to bloom,

staying hidden,

awaiting the love yet to come.

Time does make one wait

for the tight fragrance of a rose

when it is ready to appear.

He opens his eyes,

allows the darkness of his one-room world to lull his slumber

as he reminds himself how much he loves the one yet to appear,

for he doesn’t know any other way to love,

so long ago,

so present now.