
You,
never join me
when I cry.
Building piles
on the floor with stuff
you call - clutter
or junk.
Your pointer
finger - gently
draws a line
on dust.
Your head, forward -
leaning to your
right, reading?
If my tears
I shed were blood -
streaming
down my cheeks -
would you rush
to wipe the floor -
or clean
my face?
Nancy Duci Denofio













