Rob Talbert

R o b   T a l b e r t

Watching

Streetlights flicker on and tighten their grip.

Some people feel followed. Chased out of malls

by security guards into dense and reflective traffic.   

The city’s skin stares right back. It doesn’t matter

that it’s snowed for days, that snow has followed us

into all structure: Charlie shelves aluminum cans

under white hair. It’s snowing in his past.

There are still miracles to get our hands on,

but a hornet’s nest of bills stirs on the table

and the tumbling candlelight sends

shadows grasping from the dark. Who sees

the drop of water escape down the bowl, the stem,

the base? It could be the flake on your shoulder.

We are still here.

Aria for the Recently Changed

Still awake at 3 a.m.

Still the apartment window

receives all broadcast

from nearby traffic.

So near the rent is cheap.

It never stops.  Never retreats.

Blood and information

coursing under halogens

high enough for their own heaven.

One car.

Just one waits beside the road,

emergency lights flashing.

Someone stirred with force enough

to delay destination.

Tell me. If it was you I saw

stopped in the lake-bottom darkness,

could you see my window?

Was your hand cupped loosely

over your mouth or packed into a fist?

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