Upon entering:
"The sun rises at 7:05am
and sets at 6:51pm which means
day light lasts for seven hundred and six minutes, chaplain."
This daylight shines through semi-pulled curtains
on the north side where tough guys
convene to chat over the constantly streaming
noise of the television positioned on the west side.
Between Animal Planet, CNN and/or Judge Judy
they pass sorrows, sex jokes and subtle surrenders
over to one another as if in a summer league
football scrimmage where sophomore JV quarterbacks
get to launch their finest with coaches
but no crowd in attendance.
Sometimes they don't wait for the corporate sponsor
to initiate their pouring forth. Other days an entire
show will pass by without war stories or shit-talking
sessions about the highest scores
in last weekend's Yahtzee tournament.
Regardless, the high paced static stakes a constant claim
on any lingering silence that might further suffuse a
grief too swollen and ready to rupture.
Would they talk without the TV? Or is the diversion,
the possible escape of attention the enabler of
potent, tender and visible intimacy?
Today there are 734 minutes left without daylight.
Thank you and goodnight men.
Thank you and goodnight world.
1 comment:
you captured it. it still makes me cry--both the situation itself and your ability to capture it without containing it.
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