Monday, April 4, 2011

Because nothing makes sense to a woman
she sits and stares at windowpanes,
a multitude of droplets;
skipping spaces with her fingers
she smears across a name --

and because all things make sense to a man,
he takes one road to work, one road home
and each stop along the way is spent in
building a place to go, go --
a place to sign in turn, and sign
a name.

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