Lovers

The pen
glides, spilling
its heart
in loops and lines
on a tattooed page of illegible text.
The pen-craft leaving each letter bowed,
as if courteously leaning to kiss
the hand of the next.

It’s placed in the cleft
of a craterous
pillow and left
on a bed
well used,

like the only couch in a cafe
to the brim with wooden stools
with no backs,
and too tall for the tables they’re at;

a bed all worn out,
like a great,
great, great grandfather’s
house shoes.

©zacharyd’mitripoetry

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