This silent conversation
 - often interrupted -
never yearns for dialogue
  (dialogue's fleeting).
I speak the secret language of itching
I believe in the wisdom of spaces
The blithering of elbows and the twitching
     of faces.
I sing! the tin can of pathos
I am the warning on lavatory walls
I see canaries led into the cathouse
I feel emotion when all motion stalls.
   I am the trivia of the point after touchdown
     ,that is the kicker,
     ,the neurotic ticker,
     ,awaiting his licquor,
   without but a sound.