is the sound of people talking in a coffee shop, just
the general rhubarb: asserting, doubting, saying nothing
much; the clink, the chuckle, the food-muffled murmur,
the startled intake of breaths, the rumble of pleasure, the Yes.
When I can’t talk with people or lift my eyes to them,
when food tastes like boiled barley and fried raccoon,
when I can’t pray or think or read or make a decision,
I want to be burrowed in a corner with a cold half-cup
in that congregation,
in that supreme court,
in that caucus, that conclave
that heavenly choir.
Art credit: "da Black," photograph by Denis Allbertovich.
Thank you, Phyllis and all participating in this community. Grateful to share in this journey. Love, from Lucy Depp Park - Ohio
ReplyDeleteLove to you, Lucy Depp Park! I hope you had a meaningful holiday season....
DeleteAbsolutely great ending to poem.
ReplyDeleteThe universe gave me a great gift, once in seating me beside Mary O'Connor at a poetry workshop two summers ago, and again today, with a sunlight-flash of insight. It is wonderful to see her name as writer of words that warm my heart on a gray Minnesota afternoon. Thank you again, Phyllis for your thoughtful, intuitive curation.
ReplyDeleteLynda Lee as ComfyChairProductions.co
Mary is a delight. She is auntie to our son....
DeleteYou're very welcome. :)
This poem is even more true now, heading into the third calendar year of the pandemic. Sitting in a coffee shop without a low hum of concern despite precautions and vaccines would be heaven indeed.
ReplyDelete