is the sound of people talking in a coffee shop, just
the general rhubarb: asserting, doubting, saying nothing
much; the clink, the chuckle, the food-muffled murmur,
the startled intake of breaths, the rumble of pleasure, the Yes.
When I can’t talk with people or lift my eyes to them,
when food tastes like boiled barley and fried raccoon,
when I can’t pray or think or read or make a decision,
I want to be burrowed in a corner with a cold half-cup
in that congregation,
in that supreme court,
in that caucus, that conclave
that heavenly choir.
"These Days My Music" by Mary O'Connor. Text presented here by poet submission.
Art credit: "da Black," photograph by Denis Allbertovich.