tiny wings

Even now her voice sounds far away
even farther than across the country
whispering over phone lines and satellite.

I hold the receiver against my ear
my clutching fingers ache, arthritic
warm plastic crushes my earlobe.

At first the conversation is in the room;
she talks about her kids and her kids’ kids;
she ttalks about her garden, the hard soil.

Then she drifts far away, to the holy land,
the land of truth that brooks no argument:
her voice tiny, sibilant vibrations and space.

I can see the color of her rage, tendrils
of green and sparking blue drift through the room
like cigarette smoke through afternoon sunlight.

I see her dancing among the clouds
her lips snapping like maracas on a Mexican patio
the words beading on a Corona bottle.

Housefly settles on the lip of the bottle
performs the ritual frantic toilette
that fills its caustic life, then lifts and flits away.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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