Dear Reader

We are a rare kind of soap opera
that airs only at night, every night

we are the bells ripped by the wind.
You are the creek in the brambles.

A sling for the fracture in my marble.
Reader, my mobile, patiently spinning.

I live on bacon, coffee and cigarettes
but don't say goodbye

because I mostly live for myself,
my self and all its bounties belong to you.

If I catch you reading other poems
let's not be awkward or monologue.

I could look the other way;
find another page to itch and bother.

I am a carpenter with no miracles.
I am sure that sometimes
we stare at the same star unknowingly.