Of salt and pepper.
Proof of a seasoned mind.
He visits an apartment
On the fourth floor.
It has become his regular fix.
Perhaps an addiction.
Who knows? He's not into reflections.
He likes the exercise:
Up eight flights of stairs
After three blocks from his stop.
The genius in their sessions
Lies in the compromises.
He listens about fluid intentions
That disarm his prejudices.
The couch can get hard
After leaps of monologues
Coffee's a reward for the taste of sacrifices.
They are both actors
On a wonderbox empty of pretenses.
They can only wear death masks.
It's the last glimpse of life's sameness,
Unadorned by emotions,
Stripped of despair and bliss.
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