you look at me and i'm supposed to believe that you're happy.

some do.

[but] the drops of melancholy
coming from your ducts
are so large that i can't avoid them.
you're not crying,
but i watch them roll down your check
and plop loudly onto the linoleum.

while you flood the house
my soul is scratching to listen to yours
[but]
i'm busy- got to run, you say.
not even my puppy dog eyes will hold you.

come and put your head on my lap, i tell you.
slow motions guide your body to me
and lying on the couch i read your favorites,
tonight is walden, thoreau's nature of dreams.

fifty years have passed and you still tell me
that you're the most still and safe reading
with my hands in your hair.