Your words may arrive with the fat whine
of the semi's tires, the just perceptible
lilt where the road was washed in gutter trash
by the overflow of summer rain.
The birds are too hot to sing. The dogs
Grumble among themselves. Breathless,
Speechless, the afternoon hollows out
Space for your voice. I break the air waves
into identifiable syllables from the t.v.
and distant music. The kitchen radio
static whispers a plot for an intimate
rendezvous. I interpret those cryptic
articulations as your casual
turn of phase, the miraculous mishap
of hard palate and alveolar ridge,
your tongue and lips guilty of hit and run.Marcia L. Hurlow