A voice poses before a precipice
as a trickster would straddle Olympus,
mocking mortal murmurs uttered
under the touch of his influence.
I converse with folly far under my breath;
somehow it never breaks contact
yet always responds in silence.
The dialogue agrees with me,
constantly, as thoughts swerve,
climb and dive from sound
and sane all the way through
jolts of insight, back to basic lessons,
bitter rants, catchy phrases,
choice clichés, verbal obsessions.
Always quiet with a spare ear stretched to listen.
I imagine me with elbows on a table,
a knuckle under my chin and eyes
staring into space as I listen to you
as if I were not you keeping me company
out of boredom and pity.
But there's no humor lost
between you and me.



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