|Cotton field in Southern New Mexico. Looks like snow.|
Christmas songs of peace played loudly,
disturbing inner serenity,
serving as reminders,
pressuring consumers to give,
give plenty of what matters.
I was firmly on the ground, when we met,
his eyes attracted my attention.
He flew high like a kite in the sky, waiting,
behind me, to pay on a line never-ending.
He talked a stream with unceasing flow,
of Lorca, Rilke,Whitman, many more.
The deeper my interest, the deeper he delved -
into words recited from memory of his own pen,
a poem of life's ambitions dissolved
in a coffee cup on some sad morning,
memory of his past.
But it wasn't coffee that reeked on the line,
it was the fumes from the booze that drenched his sadness.
I listened gladly to his moment of pride,
before we parted, warmly
And many must have wondered
about the connection between
a woman, normal(?) as I am,
and a guy so clearly on the fringe.
I didn't credit the season
for the reason of our encounter.
I thanked our rebellion, our disregard for caution
that allowed unlikely link to happen.
As I left, the store buzzing with Christmas distress,
I paid attention to the song that loudly played and said,
"Do you hear what I hear?"
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)