the music of conversation

The music of conversation
begins, perhaps, with a warm-up
of small talk and treading lightly
in search of harmony.
We know the scales:
weather, profession, mutual friends,
and can whip them
from our pockets in an instant,
but the notes soon begin to flow
in more complex form,
weaving out of one’s vocal chords
and into the other’s eardrums,
invoking art, vivid splashes of color,
and the warmth of connection
blankets us both.
Carelessness, maybe, or comfort,
drops the reigns of the tongue,
and as suddenly as if the conductor
had been bumped off of his stand,
the music crashes into discord,
shattering to pieces at our feet.
Blue silence hangs between us,
and we part, in agreement
that it will be awhile
until the next performance.

train station

As she got off the train in Memphis,

she understood what it meant

to hear the dirge of a heart with

a single look into the eyes.

He leaned against a snack machine

as she clambered off the car

with a suitcase in each fist,

searching the sea for her city friend.

He stared ahead blankly, not tasting

a pair of pink Sno-ball cakes,

as a dark crescent moon

descended down each cheek.

Bodies bustled into his line of sight,

but they merely bounced away,

never penetrating his solitude.

Why her parents let her board

the train alone at age eleven

is a mystery to her,

but she prays for the man still,

thirty-seven years later.