I don't really talk
to anyone;
I haunt halls, ascend
stairwells, tread
sidewalks, cross lawns—
and, six days
out of seven, all of this
feels fine,
because all of these
silent spaces
and I,
we get along
as famously as Adam
back in Eden.
Then again,
if I were him,
humanity
wouldn't have gotten
too far off
the ground,
since, six days out
of seven, if you'd asked me,
I'd have balked
at the prospect
of renouncing just one
ounce of silent paradise;
it's bad odds
to even run the risk
of gambling perfection—
let alone the picture-
perfect symmetry
of one's rib cage
just for the sake,
on that stray
seventh day,
of a little
conversation.
