In the evenings,
my neighbor and I nod checking in on the state of ourselves, we inquire
and respond robotically,
he does not sound fine, and neither
am I, but it doesn't matter.
It's understood that there is no room for
more. Our insincerity hangs there, as
we fish for our keys
and then we shut our doors on it,
leaving it to dissipate in the warm butter circle of
streetlight.
My mother's hair curls out in two
even tuffs that are
perfectly symmetrical, when she talks
she looks like she could begin
flying, any moment, with a slight wiggle
of the ear.
My first poetry teacher talked of
the power of suspended images,
sans narrative. Day one he instructed us
on the end of the need for a story.
The next night he broke both his feet
at the Cat and Fiddle
stepping hard on a stair he thought
he saw. (He was wrong.)
He was
replaced.
Now I can't get it out of my head:
our tragic small talk, the streetlight circle,
the wings behind her ears.
All poetry.
It's distracting. I try not to
think about it, though. And I watch carefully for
staircases.
