why is it that the old man made me cry
folded body as he steps to reach his crutch
travelling at arm’s length distance
His eyes, a modest matte.
why is it that I wanted you to know
why it was the old man made me cry
so bad, I would have made it worse
If just for you to pat me dry.
why is it that I didn’t tell
what it was, I wanted you to know
wet-mouthed, I knocked-knock ginger
Out of your sight, my throat: still sore.
why is it that I wouldn’t tell
of growing old, soft scuffling feet
no extravagant promises
Only, the stumbling fits.
why is it that I tell you now
why it was I didn’t tell
about the man that made me cry
about your door that made me knock
About my ginger kiss.
About your lemon loss.