DANGLING CONVERSATIONS
I shouldn't have shaved the title off that last
Marquis' moustache, it was looking so good.
Not it's morning on a likely Winter's day and
can't really remember a thing. We were talking
in a half-dark of a now-late afternoon; some old
song reminded me of that. Still-life watercolor,
it went. And then - just like that - I thought
that I was powerless and should probably let
you know. I was no longer part of the tribe
I was seeing. I felt like another being.
-
Troubles keep tumbling from that old dice-chest
and the house ups the ante to whatever they think
is best. I quit playing. I laid down my cards and I
walked away - humming a distaff tune on a girl's
afternoon, wanting to see eyes everywhere I look;
instead I get a bus-station filled with schmucks and
rumblers, travelers from the darkside looking for
the light. Wrong train, right tracks, or the other
way around. I said I couldn't remember a thing.
-
There's a man with a spelling book walking past
the alley - he's shouting oaths while he gets them
right. I don't know which is less important, the
grammar or the spelling - as long as the message
is clear. In the now-late afternoon, in the darkness
that's here, in the dangling conversations that
we no longer hear. Everything comes together;
each piece falling gently into place.
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