The talker

He waits around just to hear himself speak,
like some ancient roof that’s about to leak
with drops that bleed
and ruin deeds
and set fire to the things that peak.
Reach those points
where their aching joints
pass through without any pain
and all that comes
from forgotten slums
and these broken walking canes.
He still waits there
and pretends to hear
the words that nod his head.
Those singing tunes
of rare balloons
that hold what’s being said,
between the lines
of different kinds
of things there are to say
and I keep to myself
just watching this bout
between these two today.
There’s so few words
that’s created this blur
that’s smeared through the air between them.
He challenges with looks
and pretends to read books
and claims that he has seen them.
Seen those people he’s never seen
like awkward thoughts that seem obscene
that tie us to the things we hold
like a stance and ground
and what goes around
when what’s shared has now turned cold.
Then from chilling looks to moving bodies
in cheap hotels with busy lobbies
he gets to own his people.
He plays this game
and gives his name,
but views it from a peep-hole.
Where his heart’s died-out
with what else has flew out
from the part of him left behind.
That lonely fear
that’s come too near
to the words he thinks are kind.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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