Events observed and documented in poetry.
You listen harder when you’re unsure,
when you need to be guided out of dark tunnels, or
the well-used rat runs that daily we take here and there,
so I listened to the soft voice rise up above the swell,
I listened to the voice insist as flustered figures filled the sidewalk
and it felt suddenly narrow with them spilling over into the road; I
listened while the sun set on some strangers front yard and glowed,
and the breeze mingled with my sweat to impart a delicious chill
against my empty stomach.
That was when my feet queried my brain to make me look over heads:
Are we at Keele yet?
I listened without effort to the soft voice after a while for no good reason, and
caught in it a tinkle, a delight that should fail those walking their train ride;
When a cop at the next light whistled to run a caravan of buses, I was shook
by the length, which said: the subway is still inoperative;
All went quiet for me, and dimmed. “But,” she said as if to make me refocus,
“you couldn’t pick a nicer day to have it happen.”