Drawing a treble clef
on the wall with my eye,
squinting at a chandelier
till each bulb in its red fez sprouts
counting flies in a museum cafeteria
next to a table
where two lovers are coming apart
with long talk and whole minutes
of horrified silence:
they are doing this terrible thing,
unwrapping their sadness
and showing it
to one another.
It is so awful how their voices
the idleness of their hands
pushing crumbs with a bank card,
breaking chunks from the rim
of a disposable cup
and placing these inside the cup until
there isn't a cup to contain them,
just a small pile of styrofoam chips.
From Facts (1998) by Bruce Taylor.