Our Old Shipwrecked Days
We enjoyed telling stories about the first meeting.
In a crowded place, many heads in the swirl.
Across the room, a red coat stood out, the lad
in black-rimmed spectacles gawking.
Who knew what was known before the talk
began and it threatened to never end.
Rubbing backs and staring into pints of amber
one could tell the hologram might be real.
Not real enough when you peel away the paint
or the dusty broadloom. No fine wooden floors
to uncover in this half-house, this mud-shed.
All of it sat on misery and liquifying landfill.
And then there were no stories left to tell.
Retelling them led to absent eyes and silences.
Silences continue, a great silence, a hushing.
Nothing need be said again, the unstated thing.
I Have Been Laughing, I Have Been Carousing
Listen to the murmurs droning from next door.
If they turn you off, text a friend something
telling. Don’t fake the fur this time. Or
perhaps burn a candle and watch it bring
a nice yellow quality to the parlor where this
scene unfolds without music. Someone hit
the gramophone but not the little dog
associated with it, an uptick in violence
never holds water with a ruthless audience.
And I would scold anyone who blogged
or posted criticisms of my approach to it.
When it becomes clear what it is, I will
inform my attorneys and task them with
sending you the proper paperwork. We
no longer want to be together, but the dog
doesn’t know this and it’s best we keep it
from him till all things are signed in blood.
— Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Canada. His work appears in a number of online and print journals.