A Window With A View

Do I look upon a wintry night?

From a window with a view?

From a frosty ledge with chattering teeth,

All snuggled up in wool, and wear?

Or do I look upon a wintry night

From a rooftop high in the city’s core?

Leaning against a chimney with sniffles

Of ice, dripping from my frosty nose?

Surely I am bound to see more stars

With the sky as my canvasing frame

rather than if I were looking through layers

of glass and window pane,

for what is a perfect night

behind a wall?

Nothing but vicarious meandering

And wishful thinking,

No frosty breaths or rosy cheeks

To conjure the season’s spirits,

What a shame to let the

frost dissipate in that way.

 

T. DM

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The TLC on Sherbourne and Nowhere

The True Love Café stood out. Though I had never been inside, it seemed to capture my attention. It was not particularly attractive on the outside, painted a deep shade of purple, with a giant heart scaling the front of its building. The inside, which I could only gather from looking through the windows, was just the same. Unattractive under dim lights (and probably more so amidst bright lights), chairs and tables could be seen in the presence of tall plants, sad looking palm leaves and house shrubbery. Not as appealing to the eye as one would think or hope for a place with “love” in its name. Only the outlines of figures could be seen, like shadows blurred in the background. A man behind a counter, a few people spread among eight or so tables, moving slowly, making their time last in beats. It seemed quiet to me, as though anyone on the inside could be sheltered from the city sounds, from the noises of streetcars rolling along the tracks, people trudging down sidewalks, bikes, cars, trucks, horns honking, dogs barking, hollering for apologies and yelling for the sake of yelling. It just seemed as though time stood still here, and that it stood quietly with a grin of contentment. I had never seen anyone enter the café, nor had I ever seen anyone exit. Yet whenever I passed by there were always people inside, perhaps just a coincidence of timing, or perhaps not. Though I admired the pace that seemed to be present among them, the folks inside always seemed quite unwell from where I stood. Why were they able to be so still, so present in their moment? Were they not flooded with the commotion on the outside? How could they not see or hear the masses that passed them by beyond the walls of the café? What content they must have. T. DM

Selfish

Does it feel like punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

and withering

till the early morning?

though the dawn singes them closed

and adheres them to one another

you still put up a front

with seething, gloating

cornerstones of whatever you expect

to come around,

really, it should always feel like

punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

or when you submit them to shut out

the day like you have always done

 

how can you be so impossible?

 

T. DM

 

Is it Convenient

Is it ever convenient

to meet on a dusty road

at midnight?

with a mind filled

only of thoughts of circumstance?

Would it not be convenient,

though, to meet on any road

at midnight, or twilight,

dusk or dawn,

with a mind

brimming of thoughts

of chance?

of thoughts

of purpose?

T.DM

Loose Leafs of Paper

Loose leafs of paper are

desirable little carriers

of hearts and of spades,

and last wishes or lists and

thoughts,

of carriers of words, and

diseases that run rapid to

infect those who are not

savvy to contextual modes,

taunting logical minds.

Loose leafs of paper are

endless options to the

imaginative ones, with endless

hankerings for the rustic and

unexpected. They are a

catalyst for the inquiring

mind, whose overactive thoughts

are set loose among process

of elimination.

Loose leafs of paper are

the scattered remnants of

disorder, covering the writer’s

floor, after a mad surge of

anger or of genius.

T. DM