My Soul Is Searching The Good Life Poem by Zyw Zywa

We are our own public
ours is the city, the fountain
playing my stage, it is not allowed
but the night is warm
and I feel like it

Marcello comes down the stairs
he would rather watch, yet
he stoops, puts his shoes
next to the glass of milk
and steps into the water

Caressing, he folds his hands
around my head, still without
touching me
yes! yes! he is searching for my lips
the world seems to stand still

I feel his breath
as he freezes and looks back
at a man on the bike
with a pizza box on his head
His soul is confused