To the guy at the next table hogging all the air

I listen to the music of your conversation,

Not for the content of text, but for the texture of your voices.

It sounds like a piano concerto, where you are the piano singing more than half of the notes.

There is reason no doubt; your wit is swift,

You pour your companions four inches of wine to the glass while pouring yourself 2 inches and ice. Or they all speak cazzata, while you spew thorny flowers.


Perhaps one can find one’s shallow companions have a tunnel somewhere of spelunking palaver

If instead of railroading each moment with urgent whim, one listens for the feint reverberation from the delicate membrane that protects the port to the fascinating chamber in ones midst.


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