Who does not love, even a little, the sound
of his own voice? When the browser times out
I must prove my humanity by solving
an equation: 10 + 8 or 2 + 7,
in order to continue reading or making
commentary on the latest drama
that the world’s delivered to our door.
I ponder the question a little more
and realize it isn’t that, really:
not the speaking or the writing
as a one way telephone, but that even
above the canceling din and pummeling
wind and rain, all my histories
might count for something.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- [poem removed by author]
- In the hotel with thin walls and the name of a poet,
- Close Reading
- Soul Spa
- The difficulty
- When we speak through a medium
- Whatever it is
- Private: Where the seed scattered
- Uncle Frank warned my father
- What can you hear in this downpour?
- Sketches for a Genealogy
- Private: Sketches for a Genealogy