Monday, June 20, 2016

the sound of bees (for my sister)

          The blue rotary wall phone tied you
to the kitchen counter,
shoulder holding it to your ear,
while you stared at your parents talking over
Cronkite’s black and white delivery
of the news from Selma.

Confronted by the plainness of your life
in all its glory, you longed to be
in New York City,
read at
the City Lights Bookstore
or raise a pint of ale
in Devonshire;

though you knew not
what ale was,
who was drinking it,
what was being read,
why it mattered or
what stranger you would
make love to the East Village.

You only knew you wanted
the cynosure of anywhere,
longed for it, heard rumors of it
in music and from the
high school teacher that
none of the parents trusted.

Until after years of retreat,
when you could no longer abide
the estranged languor, the flatness,
the sheer absence of madness,

you gently laid that blue phone
on the countertop,
and let it fill the room

with the sound of bees.


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