a chair is not a houseand a house is not a home
when there’s no one there to hold you tight. ~ Luther Vandross

Tucked under an overpass– a bedroom

with no walls. An Orientalrug divides highway soot and city

muck from what is claimedas home. In the center of the rug

a queen size bed withfitted sheets and a turned down comforter

revealing two dusty whitepillows. Heads rest there

under thousands of poundsof concrete and steel trusting

that the weight of theworld will not come crashing down.

Is love made there in thatbed? Do the world’s voyeurs

discover over and over theexposed room

its contents andnothingness on display:

yes, it is this simple.This too is a life worth sharing.

I consider my home; cookiecutter stability in a shaky market.

How would my life fitunder a bridge? Would there be room

for the fridge, the racksof shoes, my second living room set?

Is the plasma TV enough?Its blank face reflecting our empty

arms and wayward dreams.Would he remember the lines?

Forbetter, for worse
For richer, for poorer

Would that sealing kiss ofvows hold our binding?

Would there still be twopillows on our queen size bed?

                        ~For Mr. Zhu

On a rock near a quietstream

in Guam he sits

the butt of his rifle tothe earth

and leans his back to thewind

breathless in a cocoon ofreeds.

Cloudy hands brace for thepromise

of storms. Water collectsin tear ducts

but do not break his dam.Every drop,

sacred salt, minerals keptin reserve.

The heart’s tempo softensin a green light

of silence. A briefrespite before dawn

and the sun’s pull torise.