In my silence

"Watch out if you meet an alien, you could be infected with a disease with which you have no resistance," said Steven Hawking. This is reported speech where the sound of speech has no alphabet.

One of those overcast broken spine
too much foundation makeup
beautiful face above a big
behind tomorrow where men hang Ottoman stacks,
their dignity intact, friendships and soles, heels,

leather working tools as the knife sharpening man with one bad brown eye reflects wings from a pigeon in light, a retina, iris, cornea;

sitting, patient, waiting down at an old corner hearing,

hearing men slap playing cards on a table beneath leaden skies threading uppers to lowers threading steel knives lying sharp reflection.

You hear a slapping sound. He is smashing his old upon, outside, a window into conversations. His right hand turns a yellow switch extinguishing a single bulb.

Carrying his bent back he shuffles through today's history across fresh packed asphalt into a small place for rice and beans. Bread and water. Brown tea. A silver spoon.

The wind turns a page.

Peace.