Writing This I Am Scattered Like A Song

She laughs. But it is a low, throaty laugh.

I look over. She is reading my blog.

“In this post,” she says, “a woman knocks down
a pile of fruits and vegetables you stacked.”
Then she selects another browser tab.
“In this post,” she says, “a woman knocks down
a pile of rocks in someone’s parking lot.”

She laughs again, still that low, throaty laugh.
She looks at me. “What do you think that means?
You writing about women knocking down
piles of fruits and vegetables? Piles of rocks?”

I don’t say anything, but pointedly
return my attention to my notebook.

She stands up and walks over to my desk.
She says, “Are you planning to do laundry?”

I look over at my desk. She’s pointing
at my five-dollars-high stack of quarters.
In fact I am planning to do laundry
but there’s really no need for me to talk.

Grinning, she puts a finger on the change,
then tips the stack and removes her finger.

It’s like a song then: Her low, throaty laugh
as a bass part under the treble part
of the quarters ringing against the desk.

Some quarters roll like a little coda.

I stay silent. She turns to leave the room.

Without meaning to, I sigh. She hears me.
Her laughter changes to, well, a guffaw.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Ayn Rand, The Tower Of Babel, Breakfast

Kimberly When Empires Crumble