Friday, October 12, 2012

Listen



Stop.

Put down the pepper grinder.

Listen. Put your ear 
to the door.

Listen.

Well?

Tuesdays, I drive a
long drive
to the supermarket, 
walk a squeaky silver
cart up and
down

blinding linoleum,

adding boxes and jars,
a sack of potatoes.

Contemporary 
capriccio piped
in.

I don't know a soul. It's
better this way, moving 
parts fewer, a
carapace from ice
and crease.

Listen: I've no patience for 
hardy
hearts or potbellied
portfolios.

The table radio
plays
symphony and
concerto: strings swoop,
plucked. Bells
chime.

Listen.