Old friends from seventies
came and used to hear me
recite “how old friends the birds were always right”
Til i strove to avoid their false
avid by hiding with quill,
word for pen, in the gracious
spacious sunlit tub of fading
fad porcelain, iron claw feet painted white, ancient delight;
Still they’d knock and come in, two by twos but as though in retinue,
inquiring of one another
as though i t’weren’t there,
“you too have come for friend’s recitation
of something important, no?
Or for some music of significant
meaning of social content
in context decisive, no?”
But really not, anything goes but listening at all was apparent from their countenance by all
accounts so
Next stanza arrived i see outside
from across the street of the building
where i lived, that night standing
before its windowframes in flames,
and popping hiss of christmas
ornaments and standard bland
lights, each frame ablaze of dark apartment rooms while inside
i closed the heavy gift of guestbook
with sad eyes, hearing the tale of the dream
of droll prophets who knew none called friends
could talk about how no one ever listens.
Hidden performance gnomic whistles
again, again and again.
