today I will let my old shoes stand
where the sweep of my thin grey
rug of utility,
pulls up from the staples
of the floor.

I will write determined poetry,
bending at my bench,
with wage-anxious fingers.
I will plead for loose definitions
for libertines,
as they were:
one who made love before nightfall
or without darkening the room.

I will allow myself honey
with my tea
as night passes
as sounds quiet and thicken
as the rain picks up.

I remember you recklessly
across the bed after
a night of booze and riots.
like I always imagine
angels and you.

Also by Steven Reid refusing shelter -->

Steven Reid lives in Ontario, Canada.

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