an old writer and his words

  • OUR SONGS

    Each morning between fourand five AM the cat comesto the bedroom door, the gatewayto the one room she is deniedand for five or ten minutessings her songs which I,on the now rocky shore of sleep,imagine as a lullaby.She cannot expect me to respondbut each morning it isthe same, the songs differ,and when I finally ariseand…

    Lou Faber

  • AT THE CAFE

    We sit acrossfrom each otherseparated bythe small tablethat teeters,her cappuccinolicking at the rim.My toes danceagainst hersand she looks upquizzically.I smile and reachfor her handtouching her fingersfeeling the fine silverof the rings on each.She pulls her handback and looksinto the richbrown sheen.I stare out the windowat the odd carlookingfor a spacein the overfull lot,then pullingback ontothe…

    Lou Faber

  • DEMONS

    In the night there are no demons just the sound of your breathing soft, as your touch on my back, your foot against my calf.

    Lou Faber