My friends have not arrived
Or, they're here
But choose to remain silent.
They're odd in that way.
They know when the trains run,
They know the weather forcast,
They know when silence is most prized
And when the window's up.

They know I know their cue,
But play dead to tease me.
Their timing can be frightening.
They know my role.
They wander the entire valley,
But call my yard home.
If the yard is full
The house will do.

They chuckle and shoot-the-breeze
And leave the weighty questions to me:
How many volleys of disembodied souls did it
Take to fill the belly of a valley this size?
Why are you still around? What are you? I
Think they've arrived. Probably still amused
By the agonized expressions of the marathoners
Finishing the big Memorial Day race, or
How serious the reenactors are.

Tweet

Comments on this poem/writing:

Click here to read other Poems by Francis Santaquilani

Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: All Rights Reserved.   No part of this website, including all pictures and written words,  may be reproduced or copied in any manner from this website without  permission of the original author of the work.  All poetry and pictures herein remain the sole property of the original author and/or copyright owner.  All poetry on this website has been submitted by the original author of the work. To contact any author of the work please e-mail: dreamer@dreamersreality.com  so the proper person may be notified.