poem but not poetry

[___the_clap]

you can walk slowly, but only with four four feet.
you can sit on the steps, but only if you are waiting.
My hands are cold, but not like my bedroom.
My cigarettes smokey, but not like my eyes.
There was a pair dancing with the moving train.
They were going somewhere...

- 11:17 pm, the ides of march. The girl with boots.

I left this poem under the doorway at a poetry shop in cambridge.
I think I will take a walk everyday.
And write everyday.