In another life, I’d be a painter, an architect, someone who rummages through antiques and builds vintage beauties
no real purpose.
In another life, I’d be a busker, a savant on the guitar, a manic nightwalker whispering lewd melodies in virgin ears. I’d be your underbelly. Your shadow. Your pulse.
Through the vines, the brick glares down at our little road.
I love the walk more than any cellar, any fireplace, anywhere you or I would feign complacency,
build a home.