by Christine Adams Beckett
As evasive as you were, I preferred
to listen to your economic interjections
rather than rhetorical, candy-tongued
politicians or priests droning on about
what they think they know, tossing out half-truths
into the blowing winds, feeding the fire.
Disconnected, relegated to our respective
tribes where we belong, we preach
to the choirs of discontent and comfort now. It’s
as if we’ve driven into a cell-free zone,
where preservationists question the
health of such things as free, open communication.
Words spin in my car, as I picture you in yours:
self-contained vessels where ideas
are stuck in the throat like the heavy yolk
of an infertile egg one can’t completely swallow.