rednax20

A Lost Voice | April 3, 2012

It’s the timbre of his voice I miss
a kiss from his vocal words to everywhere,
the stentorian meaning tucked in
a grin overgrown with quiet allusion

It’s the humour of his style compiled
filed with the night and day of his lifeline
David’s sure slingshot stone
full-blown smack on Goliath’s temple

It’s a library trip on a Tuesday morn
the worn coat that saw better days
the real-ale pint in the corner of Wetherspoons
before noon’s more expensive meal

It’s a green cloth bag rattling silver words
curds with whey expunged and sponged away
tender acknowledgment of not-there-yet-ness
and yes, barking at the moon in June

It’s loving the way that a poem hangs together,
as leather smells when tanned and cured,
appreciating other’s flowing lines
knowing lines well as the wrinkles on his face

It’s the timbre of his voice I miss

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