talk falls silent when sirens name one of our own
Perpetual streams of chatter flow over one another. Sorting out whatever weather’s going armageddon. Predicting scores with zealous conviction. Speculating how the drinking bird by the tip jar works.
Memorabilia tucked under the mirror appears as ears over any seated figure ( sure to have arctic highlights, if much hair at all ). Framed heroes, crooked on the wall, remain straight faced.
Blabber shoppe gossip, ambient opinions tossed out to anyone listening, pause at the rising siren of the Third Street Taxi. Solemn transfer and reminder that chatter, perpetual together, is ephemeral alone.
( Third Street, overlooking the waterfront, was popular among seniors; and the ambulance, their euphemistic taxi. )
