Voices

I want to run her thoughts
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just old, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint 

Dinner out together,
the background music is too loud.
I can’t hear her words,
she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating.

An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest.
I imagine I am roosting in her throat,
listening, not to her mind or mine,
but Brailing my way around her silence.

Then I hear it, there between her vocal folds
a little girl is weeping,
a mother belittles and scolds.

The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.”

She and the waitress look to me,
but I am still in the hollow of her throat
a space now witnessing
my own doleful litany of sad songs.

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