Speak

“This is a beautiful place,”
said Wally, our resident alien,
the poet of Wild West and train robberies,
who left his son’s wake early
to come to our poetry reading.

We sat there speechless
for more than a beat,
then began scrambling in our bags
for whatever poems we had
that might bridge such strangeness.

Wally never missed a night.
Tonight he was late and glassy eyed
and sat there, saying,
“I just want to listen.”
 And again,

“This is a beautiful place.”
An art gallery in a community building.
A circle of steel chairs.
Daffodils on the walls.
Stained carpet underfoot.

We called the reading “Speak”
and we did, twice a month, no standing,
no stage, a round robin of poets
going three rounds on a theme
all of us had suddenly forgotten.

“This is a beautiful place.”  We learned
that his son had hanged himself.
Wally was glassy eyed and listening.
We forgot the theme.  We scrambled.
We sat there.  We tried to bridge the strangeness.