One, through, three

The man with the secret:
I look out the window
to the place on the
driveway where
we sat and your eyes were
brimming with acceptance
so much, too much
that you don't consider me
anymore
false only because
you never did

The man with the apple:
your lolling metaphors
do not make me ill
and the disillusions we
feast upon
are enough to murder
the indolence of
a common mind
and I tell you I need
oxygen
and you nod from your
windowless buildings
will your head fall off?

The man with the sounds:
the question marks you
form
at the end of every word
cause convulsions
like the pauses between
the songs on the
discs I play
that you make for me
when I am not around


and I don't know what to do
with the coffee cups that clatter
when I turn corners;
they are hidden under
a seat in my car

so I leave them there.