Exchange


You writin' a book?
I was. Now I'm writing poetry.

Oh yeah? Whad'you sound like?

[pause]

I don't know. I do it in my head.

Yeah? Well, read me somethin'.
Oh --
I couldn't. I'm sort of shy about it.
But -- here.
You can read some yourself,
             if you want.
Yeah.
Lemme do that.

She takes -- grabs -- the notebook and sits
with massive gentle grace
and opens randomly.

With furious concentration
she reads, so slowly,
softly aloud,
one word at one time.

'Snice, she says,
snapping closed and returning the book after one selection,
a poor offering,
the simplest of my gifts.
You like it? I beg, too eagerly.
Yeah, she barely replies,
and moves away,
practically fleeing -- from what, my words? -- all so fast
I barely have time to chirp,
"Have a nice day!"
and beam at her
my embarrassment.

Yeah, she barely says
and glides away.

Was this my angel, my fairy godmother, or just
the homeless, wrecked and dissolute
(meaning to me dispersed and diluted)
addict
I assessed with one glance?

No matter.

I want to give her something,
something big
for her connection.

I want to ask
if she writes,
to hand her some of my paper, my extra pen,
and implore her
to sing to me
the song of her soul,
the creature sorrowing
in her big chocolate pudding of body
scarred with burns and slashes
looking out through poisoned, bleary, reddened
chocolate glass eyes.

But she has moved away
too fast.

And I am left to wonder
if I have
been blessed.

by Sara, copyright 1999, all rights reserved