A man walks down a street talking to himself.
He stop’s, and with his head leaning he listens
to another man in a different city who has just
They are having a conversation. Even here at
the edge of the acceptable, temperature is
important; raindrops matter; wind whips
They are discussing closure with suicide
mothers; suckle sessions with plastic though
nubile women – the proper vocal nuances to
spin fears into moaning mama mantras.
They are obsessed with the love they were not
given – everything forgotten, what’s over their
shoulder, how to carry big burdens. They’ve
stopped wondering why no one listens
God is again answering someone else’s prayers.
They can’t believe they are moving closer to a
window where they might, get a place, receive
a share, take a turn.
Breath could be pushed into the lungs of life’s
“ticket-takers” and the theater of these two
men’s lives could be animated – but what of our
need to cry at their funerals?