Keeping Time

If the purpose of sound is to announce the world.

He notices a wrinkle on his tie as he looks down at the opened city.

Series of suicide bombings in Baqubah kills 33 more or less.

In the photo, the man’s left thumb is shredded.

Surrounded by barefoot soldiers.

In the sixth floor of the music building, the pianist brushes a curl form her forehead.

As a child I did not have the words to say no.

The stranger writes in her small orange notebook.

You have a heart of stone, you have no notion of pain.

Let’s frustrate each other. Stay awhile.

Steam rises from behind the counter.

The man’s date remains coy.

Not opposed, but impress me.

A look of light indifference.

Locks of light brown hair fall down her shoulders in waves.

The girl at the register keeps working, the boy watches, frustrated.

As if, if given a chance, he would speak.

Before anything else, she removes her hair clip.

Falling into this ocean as easy as stepping into a light wind.

The piping in the ceiling exposed in the postmodern fashion.

They like it okay.

There are enough random glances to build a life out of.

The stranger writes in her small orange notebook as if entranced.

Her favorite kinds of men are scientists, but he stays anyway and asks about her book of puzzles.

The young pianist brushes a curl from her forehead imagining the future’s concert halls.

Somewhere in Oakland.

The first patrons at the new café look unsure.

A place is not real until love happens there.

It is not a hometown until you’ve buried a loved one in it.

She removes her hair clip and puts her fingers on the ivory keys.