They tell me different things at different times,
when I’m happy
they talk about sunlight and a universe of stars,
but when I’m sad
they describe the kind of things
that only nuns and mercenaries
have either seen or heard stories about.
Most of the time
I just wish they sang something indifferent,
something that didn’t matter
like the plastic cups that don’t break when they fall,
or the half-glances from stranger
who forget you the moment they pass you by.