“Are you living here?” she asked
and silence fell to arguing with the clock,
which contributed to my irresolution.
I knew she meant here but I only heard
living ―
and that, I thought, must mean every muscle following
a cliff-dance path of soul, a sarabande
on the edge of silence, a demanding music
that disarrays the dark,
concentric waves of sound
and spirit that transmit through time
over borders, deep under skins
and comprehending ― oh, to be living
such affluence to feel the slender silken reach
of those elusive links of meaning ―
and when that fails, still,
to dance.
I can remove this dollar from my pocket.
I can set it slowly on the tired brown tabletop
and it will rest there, waiting for the waitress,
but whether or not I am living
here I cannot tell you,
though the clock always wins
and I must say something, which will inevitably be
“Yes.”
Grinning Owl 