Well Understood
The ole diner offers twelve course
conversations salted with unspoken jargon:
one patron withholds the dialect of fed-
up-of-my-job while his buddy barely
nods, too worn-to-the-bone;
a wife texts her friend, i-found-
a-lump-in-my-breast
while her husband swallows , ah-hell-
she’s-having-an-affair.
Hear the internalized vernacular
of hooked-on-painkillers,
the lonely phraseology of my-kids-
never-visit, and the private pang of he-didn’t-
use-a-condom. Misery keeps
its six degrees of vagueness, widens
each tiny rift. It would only take
mindfulness, a willingness to stretch,
but these half-hearted translations
make for such unsound bridges —
take table three, a party of two:
he snaps, get with reality,
which means, Honey-just-listen
while she raises one finger
to her lips, signing, please-just-shut-up-
and-kiss-me.
Copyright © Cyndi Macmillan | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment