Words are not love
just as leaves
are not autumn

dismissive gestures
and empty smiles
as the questions
tumble one by one

between your world
and my world
there is a world
of a difference

I too have crossed
Brooklyn Bridge
in the blazing heat
of a distant summer

dust upon my shoes
and city grime
etched into my collar

you were a shape once
you were a sense
you were a direction
full of promise

now nothing but words
sounds corralled
into a meaningless grid
of petrified ambition

John Lyons