The avalanche of his words bury mine

Now in an abyss, to be found some

Day or night. Profound, wonder-filled

All will think and say.

More than gratuitous handshakes after my captivating,

Uninterrupted

Pulping homilies in the absence of a pastor.

When

Conversations are claimed by them, turned away

Before I finish my sentences, miming well

The chickens I feared as a child age three. I’d

Held up my handful of corn above my head as

Gramma scattered it from her cupped apron, and so

Learned chickens could fly up, sink their feet into

My startled face to win it.

From our side of the breakfast table, when asked about

Gloria, quasi-widow,

Only we can see her realistic cow head oil looking at us:

“She stays busy. She did a portrait of Vicki,” he says with the slightest nod toward it.

They express no interest in seeing it; he

Points out her artwork within their prolix purview.

“Moo!”

Nor is it Homer nods, but that we dream.   ~~ Pope

By Vicki Hill

September 2, 2014