reading a friends poem over lemon tea

the fickle sky was almost gray
i tugged on the tassels of my dreams
tried to wrap my mind around
the meaning of david's words

perhaps it was the scent of my bold ennui
or just the saddest sniff of semi-jubilation
but all the innocent gyration seemed to fit

like the spit about the tongue of a woman
in seven shades of almost black
painted perfect red for an eerie effect

he didn't speak a single word, just held his head
silence was his well dressed ghost
now he knows that i'm absurd and
i won't hesitate to crash his metaphors

i stood in his door and responded in kind
(now he knows I've lost my mind) whatever else
is there to do? it really all just comes back
to another poem from me to you.