the teapot asks me where i have been today
so i say tokyo & back my friend
& it knows that i don't have an ounce of truth in me
so it spins a tale of lewis carrol in turquoise
while my skin sets on fire
knowing that you've never even wondered
& maybe it makes me blue again,
but then it hasn't been raining
for a few hours
so maybe that is it.

the fruit shop doesn't have the same flowers
that i fell in love with so long ago
so i wonder if everyone has left
the renaissance to a single poet?
he does not know
he does not know.

the smell of bread baking
as i walk through a village,
skies are grey & i gamble my money
with the woman who may have known me
since i was seven.
i hope she does not remember.

struggle with the moment of bliss about to come,
but know that i shouldn't. except it is the afternoon
& there is much more to look forward to.
clutch it all at my side; the reservations & a newspaper,
graffiti the clouds with silent declarations
think of a prayer to fill the empty street
just numb & undecided & waiting
for some surething
to collide with me.
maybe you are familiar with the feeling?

i admit it; i am afraid
waiting for the revolution.
those hands in knots
will come undone
at ten o'clock.