You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
                    me, it was love for you that set me
                    and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
                                                                      writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn’t there
                    an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
                                        you like the eggs a little
different today?
                                        And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.


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