it can be hard to know when to go.
One pipes up, stops abrupt—
then begins again as though
there was no pause to speak of.
(Where’s the entry point there?)
From here on, I grant a wide berth
to a guy who seems to ask it.
But wouldn’t you know, there are
other arrangements, unforeseen.
Take this woman, essence of ease:
she’s just completed our guy’s
sentence. And this other one,
a kind of verbal cake decorator,
capping crumb, icing untidy edges
(false starts, awkward interruptions)
with effortless pastel grace.
He just knows his place.
And then there’s me,
waving around a big knife,
shearing sharings—lopping off
syllables, even whole words,
at first indication of trailing.
That, or just not saying.
This doesn’t even bring us
to the hazards of explaining.