The sun going down. Dusk saluted. As usual,
by instantaneous sparkle of light.The hours between,
were always difficult to kill.
Night.
The dance further tarnished by the dissipation. Certainly in the opinion of those who lay,
in the middle. With coffee beside them, and their cigarettes.
Unusually dull. The women, unusually dressed. The men unusually distributed,
an hour ago.
Either of the two – As every person.
Received, now engaged. Seemed hard, and prompted the caustic remark,
that fed. Their silence. He said.
Reminded
of the silence, in the house. When each held – a lump.
Stimulated by this. Liken some –
to canary birds, to swine, and to loathsome reptiles.
Curled round, decayed bodies of intermittent sounds.
Now – a throat clearing
a patter of conversation, just declared.
If you stand- when being mauled.
these comparisons, did not rouse
who, after a careful glance around the room
fixed eyes, upon native spears. So ingeniously arranged.
Their points clearly oblivious.
Whereupon, perceiving. That
mind completely blank. Fixed attention
more closely upon fellow creatures
too far from them to hear what they are saying.
Pleased. To construct little theories
from their gestures and appearance.
Amanda Potter©: 2019 Poetry Marathon
