IT TALKS

to me
in rhymes
and talks to me
in unmetered sentences;
it talks to me
through spider's webs
and the screams
of caught flies.
It moans
from basements
and balcony ledges.
It's on the breath
of women
and my last
boss who let me
go.
It talks to me
from children
just learning
how to ride
two-wheelers;
and whispers
from their cut faces
and broken bones
after their first spill.
Sidewalks
talk to me
weary from the worn heels
of weary men or
the hard stiletto step
of hard women.
It talks to me
from jails,
from madhouses,
from university towers,
from burnt and gutted cars,
from the yachts and Rolls Royces
of mannered and dainty gentry
and the slobbering lunatics
inside the lofts
of artists.
It talks to me from trees
and clouds
and birds
and fish.
It speaks from lemons
and honey; it springs
from circus arcs
and pilgrim's steps.
It talks through inquisitions
and boredom and the tricks
of hummingbirds.
It does not weep
or laugh; it does not allow
or deny; it just
is: Coming, coming,
coming soon
to a theater near you:
Mr. & Mrs. Death
appearing
nightly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village 2009-2013