The view from the street

When its lights shine into the indigo street
every flat whispers of home.
If books wink from windows
the story is one that I know.

Now, on the train, as I write that verse,
the big, downy-lipped boy beside me
cranes his neck. I'm offended -
he's viewing my voyeurist's poem!

The words between us

You were something to me, no use denying it -
though talking about the past, romantically,
is surely in poor taste.

Plans formed around you, expectations around me,
but you lied away my trust. I disappointed you,
you'd be fair to say but didn't.

You said I was your life's love, poetically and too late
and before you had your babies. Against pride I hope
you've given them my place.

We shared a bed of language neither understood.
Some poems, some lies, some promises, comfortable but false;
in the end I loved reality
more than words,
and you.