She has to go to work

In the end, she’d die

like every other lady.

But today, while making her Sunday lunch

with her comfortable, lazy hands

an indolent course that takes time,

she told she’d like to live in my lines.

Taking a picture is easier, I thought

a part of the shot.

But she! To be covered in lines,

How’d I write about the pounding of the heart

that lied on the ground on that first slow evening

drizzling on us facing the sky,

or about the sweaty hand that willed to write the story

of a prince and a princess,

or about the smiles that moved the brooks

but in time fell

as brown leaves in the history of pages.

Or

She wants me to write about the present moment?

She wants to die oh I see why.

Please remember I’d never want to go to work.

Women’s liberation, economic independence

Yes they’re important,

not for me.

For good or bad, I’d like to lean

withdraw money from the hidden wallet.

Then the evening gently drizzled I recall

as pleasant as a snowfall

but forever to freeze as a broken promise.

I see clouds stealing space in the sky,

it will soon rain.

Tomorrow, she has to go to work.

She never reads my lines

But she’d like to live in them, she said.

Listen