World weary as a state of first
existence when he harried by
newly white-washed walls comes
over, sees the walls, has brought
a small but lovely bouquet of flowers
all blue irises and florid pouf of a
white carnation set strangely
in the middle as a locus of us,
props up the flowers in impromptu
vase that's filled with water. Finds
himself silently unsatisfied. Diddles
a cigarette, plays with a tall glass
martini, drinks from it, maybe. Hums
a silent song from way back. Kisses
the cheek when first seeing after long
absence or when going into it.
