by Jack Tricarico
I advised a chameleon-like friend
Be careful of which face she assumes
At the supermarket. She might be mistaken
For lost mail, and sent to an anonymous address
Which is somewhere around
The outskirts of limbo. And since all realms
Whether real or imagined
Consist of concentric surroundings
An anonymous address may be defined as
An oblivion within an oblivion, perhaps
She asked me to start again
And explain carefully
What I was trying to say. In reflection
I saw only those faces
A kind of miscellaneous mix
Abruptly converge into serious doubt
In compliance with this look
What I was trying to say
Scattered like small insects
Around pieces of bread
She started to laugh hysterically
Said I was a great story teller
And left it at that
Neither on my side of the fence
Nor on hers either. Where clarity stops
In the midst of a desert
Only patience decides
In which head the ticking goes on
