This poem was once a whispered voice
I heard over my left shoulder
While pretending to work the crowd
Of another raucous lost Saturday scene.
I couldn’t quite make out the words,
No matter how far back I leaned,
Waves of cocktailed talking blocking
The critical buffeted content.
Could only strain to decipher a meaning
While feigning a fully engaged mien.
In these moments I’ve
Learned you can't look back.
You will never seize the source.
The minute you turn your head
Is the surest way to lose the thread.
Pretty soon the whisper is the only thing you hear
As you drift from your group
And sit by the bar
While the music dies away
And ice cubes melt in your drink.
Only the whisperings remain,
A cloud of words forever unheard.
The poem then becomes the whisper
Itself which stubbornly lingers
With desperate muffled urgency,
A disturbance asking the bartender
For a pencil and a fresh napkin,
A hushing melody demanding words.
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