This is a poem

Still, he plays the cucumber--green and quiet.

They crack and pop like bones in him
Yet at the actions shirk
His laugh but whistle whispers
His smile but twitches smirks.

Alone, he types what passions kept
In sad truncated poems,
His lines the lone catharsis
But for cinema and home.

While sweep the urge impulsive
Out in ships to overseas
On the Rhine with her in Deutschland
Shielding sunlight from her knees.

To live with them on fictions shelves
A writer's graceful bow
In a great divorce from heaven
Having wrote the here and now.