I Listen To The Tick Of An

I Stand, Walk Over To Him, Sit Down On His Bed, Put My Arms Around Him, Hug Him. He Hugs Me Back Strong And I Can Feel The Shame Coming Through His Arms. I Am A Criminal And He Is A Judge And I Am White And He Is Black, But At This Moment None Of That Matters. He Is A Man Who Needs A Friends And I Can Be His Friend.

She Feels And She Cries. It Is To Be Admired.

There Are No Words And There Is No Singing, But The Music Has A Voice. It Is An Old Voice And A Deep Voice, Like The Stump Of A Sweet Cigar Or A Shoe With A Hole. It Is A Voice That Has Lived And Lives, With Sorrow And Shame, Ecstasy And Bliss, Joy And Pain, Redemption And Damnation. It Is A Voice With Love And Without Love. I Like The Voice, And Though I Can't Talk To It, I Like The Way It Talks To Me. It Says It Is All The Same, Young Man. Take It And Let It Be.

On The Other Couch A Women Sits With A Young Boy Looking Through A Picture Book About Babar The Elephant. When I Find A Magazine And I Lean Back To Start Reading It, I Can See The Women Watching Me Out Of The Corner Of Her Eye. She Moves Closer To The Child And She Leans Over And Kisses His Forehead. I Know Why She Does It And I Don't Blame Her.

Take The Risk And Do Whatever You Can Do And Try Not To Get Caught. If You Do Get Caught, Do It Again.