The Tv Is Always On In The Next Room Poem by Bernard Henrie

Your albino hair reminds me
of Japanese snow lazed across
pages of your travel book.

I doze and wake. Open the NY Post.
Common afternoons rub and pass.
Coffee is stirred then pushed aside.

We begin to speak and fall silent.
Meaning drifts. Words in the street
cannot be understood. Or knowing
an address you become lost.

We sit like a bowl of paraffin fruit,
listen to voices from the next room.
Raindrops streak the window and reflect
in your eye glasses. Someone might think
you are crying.