SOFT DISTRACTIONS

There is a sound imperceptible,

stumbling to the cusp of the ear -

there is a word unsaid, tasted neither

by tongue nor pen. Unbidden nudges

these, sauntering in like some cat

on hushed paws, weaving in then out,

sweetly soft distractions troubling sturdy legs.

These muted messages, purred in isolation

leave hint of neither source nor purpose,

they are just born, then expire. Mostly

I push them away, as primitive man

must have scampered before rolling stones

or gawked with high brow and squat jaw

at crisp lightning spears.

Sometimes I turn up the music, consume things

or people, then grind time into mortar,

fill each vacant synapse with clatter.

“Hold me, please, but from a distance

and only for today.”

That is all there is. I am suddenly sick

and fear I shall live.

end/Michael Bogar