| Active Listening The wall is yellowing behind him. Sepia prints yawn. Thin February sunlight seeps through dimpled windows. I fix on the iron cricketer, WG Grace, raring to bat. My own lesser bearded companion starts to speak. The pub snug begins its slow spin, like old vinyl. He gulps at his bitter, Adam’s apple yo-yoing. Dust specks swell and bounce from my burrs – now tiny chairs, a chest of drawers, blue teapot, large vase of drooping tulips; all jig-jigging in a merry-go-round of nothing. I blink hard, funnel my eyes. His are nowhere to be found, kicking about the rough wood floor like lost marbles. Charlotte Gann |
If you have any comments on this poem,
Charlotte Gann would be pleased
to hear them
