A Meatball

I fold my napkin gingerly, like it’s afraid of my touch.
There are so many sounds in the wall it’s like a quiet river.
The cold outside makes our warmth more fragile, and that’s just as well.
Scarcity creates value, I suppose.

The thing is, my thoughts are broadcast commentary,
since there is no other way. Of course,
the Grand Voice is wrong; and it disagrees with itself. And though I may be
we, sometimes we calls and I do not listen.

After all, why should I bother tracing lines on headstones to read what they say?
a bird doesn’t bother with birding. And besides,
if all is passing from dark to dark, why should I even watch its passing?

But a drum beats other drums, and it can’t refuse the sound.
You cough, I look down.

In the reaches of a moment, a meatball really can be
Everything: and if you can’t find the end or start, it may as well be
Always.
And if a meatball makes you warmer, I would do well to be yours.

And I’m sorry. I suppose that’s the bottom line here.

Another poem from my (free) collection.

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