The Death of Conversation
by Bruce McRae
“My advice,” he said, unasked,
“is never live near to a waterfall.
The noise is surprisingly loud.
There are tourists, and they're always lost.
Lovers pall your lawn. A constant
mist is mucking up your windows.”
I drained the last of my cup,
remembering something long forgotten.
“And another thing,” he said, vigorously
pouring sugar into his milky tea,
“Never trust anybody, and I mean anybody,
with tattoos above their shoulders.
That's one of nature's warning signs.
It indicates a weakened state of mind.
It suggests a lengthy stay in prison.”
I lit another cigarette, preparing
to leave. I needed to be somewhere else.
“And never go out with a beautiful woman,”
he blurted, as I made for the door.
“Every other lothario tries to challenge
you to a pissing contest.
Beautiful women are easily distracted.
They're dissatisfied. Their early promise
has been broken. They become bitter . . .”
I threw a dollar on the counter
and left the diner, stepping out into sunshine.
Into a world of waterfalls
and beautiful women.
“is never live near to a waterfall.
The noise is surprisingly loud.
There are tourists, and they're always lost.
Lovers pall your lawn. A constant
mist is mucking up your windows.”
I drained the last of my cup,
remembering something long forgotten.
“And another thing,” he said, vigorously
pouring sugar into his milky tea,
“Never trust anybody, and I mean anybody,
with tattoos above their shoulders.
That's one of nature's warning signs.
It indicates a weakened state of mind.
It suggests a lengthy stay in prison.”
I lit another cigarette, preparing
to leave. I needed to be somewhere else.
“And never go out with a beautiful woman,”
he blurted, as I made for the door.
“Every other lothario tries to challenge
you to a pissing contest.
Beautiful women are easily distracted.
They're dissatisfied. Their early promise
has been broken. They become bitter . . .”
I threw a dollar on the counter
and left the diner, stepping out into sunshine.
Into a world of waterfalls
and beautiful women.
Soldiers of Darkness
by Bruce McRae
“We’re angels and we’re looking
for a needle and thread.”
“You don’t smell like angels,” I said,
as they ransacked the kitchen.
“Oh we’re not real angels,” they replied.
“We’re the impression one has
of how angels might possibly look and behave.”
They moved as ribbons in the wind,
their voices like thousands of soda bubbles bursting.
“I’m too old for games,” I complained,
these unlikely ‘angels’ rising to the ceiling.
“We are smoke,” they replied in unison.
“Our work is to represent your state of mind,
and at present you are very lonely.”
The room flickered, much like an old television set
or a lantern's flame in a time of storms.
“I am not lonely,” I countered,
“and have never been happier.”
“And now we are light,” they sang,
as the evening dimmed, their harmonies pure
and the colour of cobalt.
But I would not submit.
I did not surrender.
for a needle and thread.”
“You don’t smell like angels,” I said,
as they ransacked the kitchen.
“Oh we’re not real angels,” they replied.
“We’re the impression one has
of how angels might possibly look and behave.”
They moved as ribbons in the wind,
their voices like thousands of soda bubbles bursting.
“I’m too old for games,” I complained,
these unlikely ‘angels’ rising to the ceiling.
“We are smoke,” they replied in unison.
“Our work is to represent your state of mind,
and at present you are very lonely.”
The room flickered, much like an old television set
or a lantern's flame in a time of storms.
“I am not lonely,” I countered,
“and have never been happier.”
“And now we are light,” they sang,
as the evening dimmed, their harmonies pure
and the colour of cobalt.
But I would not submit.
I did not surrender.