That, you tell me, is true poetry

 Published in Sledgehammer Lit 

The Edge of the Bed

 

 

 

At first, we are waiting on a large terrace. A clatter of plates.

Distant footsteps. All the languages are foreign. Everyone has a dog.

 

Twice as many people as expected are here. 

We are on a list but not the most important one.

 

We are asked to leave. By whose authority, I loudly demand.

People turn to stare. Some mutter. Perhaps this is all a mistake.

 

You point out inconsistencies in the man’s vocabulary.                                                     

It appears that he is reading from a script on his cell phone.

 

We are sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed.

Our foreheads are touching, or possibly our hands.

 

We review what has happened. We seek explanations.

None of our theories are an exact fit for the circumstances.

 

I ask if other people always finish your sentences.

That, you tell me, is true poetry.