Lloyd Lofthouse

I am in a love affair with Hafiz. His poems tickle my throat and turn the corners of my lips up. His words dance with my fingers as if I wrote them myself.

I sit in the streets with the homeless

If my alarm sings at 6:45 then I am out of bed by 7:03. I stagger to the coffeepot and pull it out from the open rack where it sits. The rack has six shelves on which our dishes, glasses, mugs and microwave precariously sit. We have no cabinets, save the ones we keep the oatmeal in. Once the oatmeal is put away there is no more room for dishes or coffee pots. We’ve lost almost all of the wine glasses to the tipping dance of the rack, each time you add a plate or take one away. They fall to the floor and throw their pieces across the…