Yes, It's Poetry

There’s an old print in my office. I think it’s Lake Como. It shows an ancient hotel or a
Villa. Broad stairs lead to a round tower, with a pointed red roof; a balcony, and the blue Lake stretches beyond. At last are the mountains, all stones, but rose colored, in sunset light.

Now I see... That is where I belong. Somehow I have made a Mistake,
being here, looking out at the gas station (where someone was killed a few years ago) and taking complaints from people who are miserable in every sense of the word.

I was inattentive and missed some chance, dull-minded and didn’t see.

And the Collaborator, who belongs on that balcony, with me,
to work on The Script – where dialogue falls into place l

like ball bearings into some lightly oiled, perfectly-Machined groove

- and where we are disturbed only by
An evening breeze off the Lake that lifts our hair, and requires us
To use our cocktails as paperweights, has gone
Unmet.