Love

Every human needs human love.
Some settle for the animal.
I don’t mean cats, dogs, or horses.
Humans are often animals.

She banked her take in her brassiere,
came home when one cup overflowed,
stashed it all with him, his two hands
moving to open the cashbox,
they called it, an old humidor
from the dumpster. He prowled alleys
and streets between typing his words.
Though he wrote in his head walking,
he always stopped to write it down
in the shirt-pocket spiral pad
he carried with him everywhere.
On First he always found a friend
inevitably asking him
Whacha doing now you gave up
the life? to which he only smiled.
After drinking, he shopped for food
to make the dinner she called lunch.
She always took time off from tricks.
After eating, her seasoned lips
made his body flow with new life,
his cruising having made him raw,
her need to save her mouth for him.

I never learned her other name.
She loved Angel for what it meant.
She wanted to go to heaven,
she said, I want you to go too.

(4 April 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander