When night falls there is always a light on
in the upper left apartment
across the street.
It stays on ’til dawn arrives.
I think about what demons
keep the occupant
from turning the switch
and accepting the dark.
Will they come visit me when my room has no light?
Ellen Sinclair is from Maine, USA.
He comes to the jam most Sunday nights,
This gentle, unassuming man, carrying his
Note for note, played or sung, pitch perfect and
resonating with feeling.
But it is the hugs he gives so generously and effortlessly,
full of kindness, that seem like music
and feel like love.
Ellen lives in Maine and plays at the jam.
The local diner, sun about to show herself.
He passed me,
sat at the counter.
Doing so, his shorts slid down, revealing two grey,
cotton-covered buttocks and a vertical crack.
Hard not to look.
Leaving, he flashed a smile my way,
the horizontal crack considerably more appealing.
I smiled back.