Middle Cathedral Rock: Black Rose runout

While no one wants to hear it,
I turn to watch faces close,
Like the end of a day’s work,
In a shop run by strangers.

With one poorly placed thought,
Sidewalk cracks slide akimbo,
Slowly over the decades wear,
Plugging the ears before me.

Perhaps these sandpaper words died,
Somewhere on their way to you,
Like sick migrating birds from afar,
Dropping from the sky on our streets.

But I still cradle and collect feathers,
Burnished and raw from years of travel,
Across the great distances between us,
Sitting side-by-side learning semaphore.

That I wield an aging bullhorn,
Dismissed in the evening traffic,
Which runs wild through my life,
Makes little difference to the deaf.

While I don’t want you to see it,
You turn to watch my tongue still,
Like the end of a life’s work,
In a world run by strangers.