Tuesday, February 2, 2021


Poem #20

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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