Sometimes
when your shoe is hurting,
it’s because of the seam
on the sock.
poem- droning October 8, 2014
Through distant waves of consciousness,
I could hear the bagpipes.
I strained to identify the tune:
Something familiar, but not quite
recognizable.
When Malcolm was five,
he longed to play the pipes,
and listened blissfully to recordings
of pipe and drum corps.
At twenty-five, it seems doubtful
he’s returned to this youthful passion.
And still I hear the droning buzz
through bleary wakening,
until with a click,
he turns his razor off.
.
.
(true story)
she says, he says May 21, 2012
I’m sad, she says,
her head resting
upon his shoulder.
Words greeted by silence
that hovers
like a malevolent precipice.
Why, he says, are you choosing
to make yourself sad?
I did not choose to be sad, she says.
So then, why did you say, This is sad? he says.
What? she says.
You said, This is sad, he says.
I did not, she says.
I said, I’m sad. She says.
No. You didn’t, he says.
Yes. I did. She says, sighing.
Silence weaves around them like water
filling between the cracks.
Now,
I’m angry, she says.
Shawn L. Bird 