Pinewood

There was a second

where the world stopped in its tracks

in the last place it should have stopped,

a set of polished-oak booths

for one across from one.

Each of us had scrawled-over printed-paper notes;

while she sipped a vanilla latte,

almost too sweet,

we wrote on sheets of glass.

The dense fascia in the air

of Graham Nash,

mingling with the scents Hambela,

suddenly evaporated.

No one said a word,

and it was beautiful.

There was no connective tissue

which glossed over all the raw edges

of what it meant to be human.

A veil was pulled briefly,

the satin ripped and torn,

and it was beautiful.

A conglomeration became individuals,

a congregation became parishioners

with unique identities

and unique responses to the silence.

Thoughts rushed in of how I could breathe,

I could think and I could see easier,

as if the noise had sat on my chest,

wrapped my mind and blinded my eyes

like a subtle straightjacket’s caress.

Now we all simply existed in our jaggedness

and it was beautiful,

it was real,

until the next noise came on.