Three-Word Mirage

You draw me,
Swell my tongue
With your approach
Like dewed petals
To this parched
Desert-wanderering dreamer.

Then you withdraw,
Or seem to,
As this thirst
Dilates the minutes
Between the tasting;
I lose sight
Of your glisten
In the hot
Bone dry sand.

Of this madness
This steadying thought
Is finally born:
These words need
Your coy retreat
To launch their
Violent campaign march

Out of this
Soft wet inkwell,
Beneath blazing fluorescence,
To grudgingly coalesce
Across paper deserts,
Through the mirage,
Seeking the truth
At its heart.

The worst part
Is knowing that
Despite my thirst
Until now I 

Could never really

Understand what parchment.

The Knock

These are the sounds in-and-outside this bubble…

the dying hiss of the ancient radiator…

the mono-drone of dangling fluorescents…

the mingle-tones of adolescence…

   the downward cattlesque clomp

   the upward prattle and bluster

   the shuffle-clank of locker time

                        the  tardy bell call-to-battle...

these are the sounds that cluster…

this the film that coalesces over the surface of days

this is the murmuring audience always preceding

my favorite of long-running three-act short plays—

through this impersonal mumble cuts

the knock – your knock—

three quick raps—

two urgent—

I have just a little time—

third just a little softer—

to greet a friend—

it raises the curtain—

lifts the cylinder—

rouses the sleeper—

that much is certain—

then—

just topping the bottom

of the door’s rattling glass –

two bright little spotlights—

make a quick pass—

two big smiling eyes barely peer over—

but brightly announce—

hey—down HERE—

when—

last of the cast—

the brisk little wave—

barely a flutter—

quick like a knave—

and no less a cue—

exhausting the text—
the moment has passed—

so exit stage left—

and on to the next—

and back around closes the bubble…

and back around settles the hum…

and back around and back around the papers pile until—back around—

the best little traveling show can come.