10:30, “sugar at
the bottom of everything.”
On the phone, talking weather,
taxes, filling pause with rubies,
no, fake gold. Loot that holds
at the bottom of conversation.
“How do you ail?” I say.
I store old photos in a public place.
I speak an old style I got from
a book. Once it was given to me twice.
I don’t feel until you’ve started
speaking, how do you do?
Don’t ask, but answer.
“Good but train was late again.”
Days grow shorter the longer
they stay here, I say, not aloud.
There’s something a-rhythmic
to us. It is consistent, so coherent,
so no less confusing. “I dealt
with people, again. Didn’t read,
but said something, anyway.”
Talking little is still talking small.
What is wrong with the little, the small?
What needs to be addressed?
Morning, Paul. OK, see you.
I was approached by a baby
in the lobby. I held her until
it was discovered she was missing.