All afternoon I’m in a meeting.
Someone has left the door ajar.
Through this gap there reaches me
The stepped, several levels of a mockingbird’s song
And then their sweet resolution
On a bare plane of silence, then silence’s innuendo.
Come now the human words again, droning voices
Bereft of passion, enumerating
Certain discontentments, rough notes
On the problem of being human:
Notes to be duly transcribed, and the papers
Placed then in smooth, manila folders
And filed away for future reference
As if they might someday be needed
Yet no one transcribes the spiral arc
Of the mockingbird’s perfect trill,
Nor the implications of its achieved completion,
Nor the sequent silence’s cool innuendo.
Poems used with permission of the authors, and may not be re-used without their permission.