-each, in a place of our own time-

a musing over a far younger poet

so I write things down.

so do you, I see.

let’s sit at the table
as we gather our belongings.

the interiors are cluttered

with all sorts of stories, but

we can sort them out, you

gathering those which speak to your residence 

as I do the same for those which speak to mine.

after all, we've laid them down for a purpose.

the spines
of books you've read are seen shelved behind you
and you've absorbed the richness of them, it's clear.

your documents are formal and convincing, unlike my own.

even so, we both hold papers of recognition;
the completion of certain formalities.

the papers I hold are older, vintage, you might say.

a patina casts a veil of time over them and anyway, nowadays,
who would make the effort required to seek them out?–– but,

still, it makes a lot of sense for you and me

to sit at the table to write things down, each 

in a place of our own time,–– with all the goings on
drifting in through the open doorways fully-clothed,

then drifting out, as naked as yesterday.