Golden hour
There’s a peace here, a quite
Precious distance, when you don’t
Understand what’s being said
When jokes, taunts and refrains
Come to your ears in unfamiliar rhythms,
Dancing syllables refusing to stay still
As your sneakers pound the concrete,
Smell and taste and thirst bind you
Tethered to what you crave in the moment
Here, even doorways have stories to tell
There’s a fable or two hidden in the dim
Shady depths of entranceways,
Yellow brick alleyways have tales too
Facades and walls lined with emerald
(Or is that green paint?)
Hunger — like gravity — tugs at my feet
I land with a thud inside a noodle shop
“I should’ve had another whiskey”
There’s a peace here, private,
Mute, the gulf of not understanding
Peace isn’t a place you see
It’s the space between language,
Between sight, sound and need
There’s peace in not being understood
And not needing to be
