A congress of dogs ambassadors

between wooden legs

of coffee shop benches

a sunny, chilly November.


But my dog he died last year.

I have no ambassador.

My boy died last September

and I don’t have his nature


the insouciance to stick my nose

into other people’s business.

Around me swirls a confluence

of conversations like tidepools.


Each of us inhabits his own space.

Each with his own space to live.

At last it’s ours, as it should’ve been

all along, the freedom to enjoy oneself.


But I’ve no dog, no go-between.

I can only watch as one watches

from a great distance

from across a glassy bar.

R. Charboneau


Artwork: Van Gogh, Cafe Terrace at Night, 1888

3 thoughts on “Age of Silence

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