Two Different Worlds, Spinning, Spinning Not Colliding. Poem by RIC BASTASA

he is weaving words,
the fabric is thoughts
there he is sailing on the river
of his mind
on an early
morning's sophistication

the words are beautiful
compact as a disc,
heavy as dumbbells,
well written like an embroidery
of a computerized
machine,

he is happy after it was finished
and he reads it to her

she is flabbergasted, unable to believe
what she hears,
unaccustomed, she shows her disgust
about such a waste of time
which could have been used for
other equally important
matters of the office,

she is mundane, he is out of this world,
he claims he is into divinity
she protests, that it is a comedy,

two different worlds inside a room
walls rising in the middle of the bed
round in a cycle of conflicting views
and style and vision and acts,

but this world spins and spins and
revolves upon the corners of everyday
and bound, being so much bound,
to that untarnished reputation of
how the community sees it to be,
the journey continues, round and round
like the way each ring sticks it out
to the fourth finger.