click of dishes in the sink stops
hold breath—
cricket opens dialogue for a long solo unanswered
hold breath—
exhale without phonation
riot of tumbling ashtrays clatter uselessly in head
—broken glass to step on later
shoe on linoleum queries rhythmically
throat clears pointlessly
questions seek answers roundly flatly softly bluntly
tap spews water
humming
answers
My voice drones on until I cannot hear it
except as a clicking on the desert sand
these faces are part of a vast mirage
waiting at the edges of this dream in which I read
my voice drones on until I cannot stand it
except as the prop that keeps me spinning
in this dimension this room this inquisition
the man in the front row yawns, glazes over
where has all my wit flown where has the
clever page gone it is so wretchedly empty
his eyes have retreated into his brain
looking for garbage or worse anything but this
fear of death by boredom crosses on slow camel before him
I recite the words backwards they are so interesting backwards
listen listen to the words backwards
I am reading drivel to my peers.
The only ones who knew
were either dead or Disraeli
—Alan at dinner
I held this observation through dinner
like a hobo filching bread from a soup kitchen.
I chortled to myself as the brioche disappeared
through the rest of the conversation
followed by metropolitan discussions of
education, theatre, politics and
famous friends and
steamed rice, string beans and
tender breast of chicken in a delicious perfect sauce
that rambled through the rice and over the beans
like tour guides thinking of the Piazza Americana
from beneath the blazing florets of Notre Dame
I complimented our host before dessert
and being the first person I’d ever heard
use Disraeli as an adjective
We devoured his home made pumpkin pie
in studiously devout silence
