As The Irishman Reads...

The traffic is quite loud
And the trucks changing gears
The squealing of brakes
And the increase of speed
Vum vum vum
It all whirs by.

Here I hear
All the sounds outside,
But quietly he reads,
The lilt of his voice
And so softly the poem
Leaves his aged-cracked lips.
He sniffles his snot
And gurgles it in his throat.

His scalp is red
Under the 50 or so wisps of hair
That still reside there.
I can hardly see his eyes
Through his glasses.
But I listen
So clearly to his voice
And as I look through the sounds
His voice seems to gently sing
The words
That almost roll over the hills
And move between raindrops
And sit on the wings of a moth
As she hides from the dew
And all I can feel is the poem
Being read as it was written
As the Irishman reads
To pluck the strings
Of a heart
Deep within my chest.

I find that I’m lost
Among nothing.

Tell me, myself,
Is there anything more?


Copyright 2004, Kevin S. Charnas