The dialogue between those two

was hard to describe
except to say
there was a lot of noise
that carried just a little signal
both intended and unintended
in a bed where each of them
waited cordially, aggressively,
for the next opportunity
to make some noise.
It reminded me of how 

I once was in a house

with walls made
of broken glass
set in rough concrete
so light came through
from outdoors.
From inside it looked
like this conversation sounded:
gems from a distance,
trash close up. I could not
leave that house soon enough,
though I longed and chafed
to be gone, just as

I could not get away

from that conversation.
Prisoner of the moment, I had to 
stay and hear it all, wondering
how it could go on and on
without one saying to the other,

let’s get out of here.  

Let’s not talk for a while. Let’s agree
to take this somewhere else.
Let’s agree to shut up and step outside
into unstained full sunlight
and see what it looks like from there.

By the way,

when I finally escaped
from that house, I found
that from the outside
it just looked like rubble.


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

One response to “Rubble

  • Eileen

    ahhhh yes. The Apartment Upstairs

    perfectly appointed all in white
    with touches of blue enhancing
    some fragile Delft knick knacks
    under a shelf lined quite martially
    with heavy cobalt blue bottles
    empty now of their vodka clarity
    the color scheme impeccable
    similar to the delicate lady
    pale white skin blue blemished
    to match the decor and the sounds
    of crashes and thuds overhead
    marring appearances of propriety
    quite declasse in any color scheme..

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