I love people

I love people.
I love people.
They face me in photographs, sad.
I face them in photographs, sad.
Living this double life, I'm Washington and Worhol, Charlie Brown and Kurt Vonnegut,
Oh, maybe I should just become a cowboy.
What is peace?
What is hope?
What the hell?
What if the light that fills the void is just the headlamp of a freight train?
The only thing more frightening, lingering, than questions are answers to life and death.
What if he became an angel?
Face nine tenths shaven, healthy, beaming a star around wings like silk pajamas.
Maybe they'll put him on as a conductor or a brakeman.
Swing in this lamp needlessly, contentedly in a perpetual day.
Maybe he's happy and I'm crying for no reason.
Except for that a man who loved me more than he loved himself is gone, never to return to me and that makes me infinitely sad, mourning for a simple man with simple ways.
And that is why I love the people in the photographs like the ones in this coffee house like the one who makes it harder not to cry the way he plays the piano.
I have no answers.
Have no answers.
Maybe want no answers.
But I look anyway and I love them.