I sit where you might find me and where you might not.
The fountain spouts water.
You never remarked how the sun
catches the crest of spray;
there wasn’t enough time
and you were occupied with other things.
On the digital clock.
I wait for a chance encounter,
to show you the spray of water,
and how the sun catches its crest.
I want nothing but that.
I think you will not come.
I like the way you sway your arms when you dance.
I wonder what you might regret,
and how I could leave you happy
I go quickly. There isn’t much time.
You walk by, perhaps.
I asked you once if you were happy.
Later, alone, I go
out to a clean, well lighted place.
My tarot cards are blank.
Young boys are beautiful.
I do not wish I was someplace else.
fiction poetry "fact" photography