Fondness Makes The Heart Grow Distant
It took me time to understand
the genius of your notion:
that conversation at its best
is void of all emotion.
I once believed discussion was
the ultimate in pleasure -
but now I see that intercourse
is more a curse than treasure.
If we don't speak there's little chance
I'll question or annoy you;
and time should show that words not spoken
rarely will destroy.
So skirt the issue, even if
it's tenderly contested.
Friendship can mean so much more
when nothing is invested.
Small talk seems the way to go,
a logical regression -
our growth as friends depends on our
avoiding introspection.
I don't wish to discuss our goals,
why run when we can crawl?
I think we may grow closer still,
if we don't speak at all.
6:03 A.M. Friday
His radio alarm screamed angrily,
waking up only her.
A glance at the clock showed it earlier,
than she'd waken up in a year.
Her burning eyes slowly found focus,
her dried contacts cried for saline.
Her mouth smelled and tasted like whiskey,
she thirsted for ice cold caffeine.
Her hungry brain drummed like the bad classic rock,
that continued, attempting to wake him.
After failing her third try at shutting it off,
she finally decided to shake him.
He stopped snoring, rolled over, pounded the snooze,
and their eyes met in stunned recollection.
She lifted the blanket to hide her bare breasts,
he covered his morning erection.
He realized he'd have to get ready for work,
she prayed for a means of escape.
He guiltily felt that the excess of liquor
made last evening something like rape.
He hopped in the shower, and gave them both time,
to put all their pieces together.
She scurried for wardrobe, but sacrificed freedom,
to search for her Grandma's old sweater.
He dropped her at home, on his way, late, to work,
e-mail and phone info switched hands.
A kiss, a goodbye, and they separated,
to meet life's respective demands.
Rich Siil
Rich Siil often reads at Fitzgeralds open mic poetry nights in the suburbs of Chicago. He has also performed at South by Southwest Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas. In live readings he can nail a line dead on and he adds another dimension to his written words.
Mike Plumbley