From the couch, he reads and chats; A sage of antiquitous homosexual poetry. Just inside Rome, his terrace blooms Jasmine. Wide open windows & white lace beckon a breeze, and it comes, and it always comes well. Books piled and stacked, but not randomly. He makes time for pillows, the telephone, and tea. To speak slow, because he listens quickly, and gives freely to all, but the geckos Paintings of mutating people, and animals abound; But there will be no perch for this gecko. Turning down For the night He reaches for His bedside light To find instead A cold green critter And you could say He was a twitter But no blow came He left instead To fetch the can of "ant be dead" Returned he then To aim his spray 'till empty can & fell'd gecko lay Do gecko's pray? They should today. Cursing softly, and almost pleasantly with guilt. The Italian book collector casts the creature out. Its poor wretched death mask fixed, and color, gone. He turns about, clears his bed, and clicks a switch fan. Thirty minutes post, asleep, he dreams a gecko funeral. In the morning, with fresh juice, he peers from balcony. All evidence missing, not a trace, and when asked "why he hates the gecko?". He thinks a moment... But then spots a book that he would love to show you first. "Some dreams come true".