This silent conversation
- often interrupted -
never yearns for dialogue
I speak the secret language of itching
I believe in the wisdom of spaces
The blithering of elbows and the twitching
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.