Eyes
Once I worked in an office. Those graceful days. At night I burnished diamond stairs to the glassy rhythm of time. My first job to sweep golden dust off gilded lines. This teenage boy wore working jeans. His long ropey hair was mine. The corporate men were long past; blinded to me as I was to their money eyes. Ah, those graceful days. I remember the gleam of emeralds. The floor I waxed to a midnight shine. Then lastly, before the morning light, a reflection was my callow dream in shoes hardly worn. That's why I remain as graceful as those days. That's why my eyes stay blind to those gilded lines.

Georgie
Come'on, Georgie. One more movie. Whaddya' say? Come to my place, we'll watch a DVD. An old Gary Cooper picture, like High Noon.

You lost your mind long ago. Been hospitalized too many times. Your teeth turned rotten and fell out in a bloody mess. People like you know madness. You know homeless sleep on winter nights. Cardboard blankets. Warm bowls of soups for Salvation songs and hungry prayers.

Come on, Georgie. Whaddya got, really? Not your mind. I got an old Gary Cooper movie. What do I got? An old TV. An old collection of movies that I'm sure you'd like. I'll feed you, too. Not much, because I don't got much. But it's better than the streets. It might keep your mind in check. It's the least I can do for a friend I knew before you went mad.