Interfaced in the dirty window, stripped floors & Chinese food cartons.
I have a hunger no fatalist should mess with.

She told me she liked to sit in the dark, especially on weekends.
In my kitchen, the fire alarm with the dying battery beeps & beeps.

The balcony door stays open all night.
Motorbike on the next block gripes like a gassy baby.

The cigarette burns in the sheets are not my fault.
Maybe I should love you because that could make it happen.

The oak they sawed away at this morning never held a tree house.
I could love a leaf.

When by chance I say what I mean, am I better understood?
I swear the Dalai Lama has my mouth.

I�ll put down Indian throw rugs, steer clear of incense.
Sooner or later, I always lose the house key.



�2007 by Lisa Gordon
previously published in Poetry SZ