Listening to that Which Lives, Feels, Thinks & Wills

The fact of hot air rising
up to greet them as an upper
floor apartment stays cool longer
than anyone predicted.

That rhythm of riding trains
and meeting them
on the other side
of the Pawcatuck River.

The confused irony
of a truck driver who whistles
at a 58-year-old woman
in running shorts—

she who has always condemned
the objectification of women
as she wonders which shoes
flatter her legs most.

That four letter word
coming from or belonging to the sea,
which explains everything about her:
compact name, hair, frame, stare.

The anticipation of waiting
for that last tiny bubble
in the foam of a perfectly chilled
glass of nitro cold brew to burst.

That astonishment of realizing,
yes, it can be this smooth.

The instrumental that invites
acoustic guitar, mandolin, and banjo
to gather on a front porch
down by the lake so late

into one March night
it spills into a new day
with delicious darkness
lingering on the morning’s breath.

One thought on “Listening to that Which Lives, Feels, Thinks & Wills

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