When I listen between the
words of the street waif,
I hear threads of truth
between the psycho
tropics. I get scraps of her
stepfather’s cravings and
whimpering sounds her
mother made late at night.
She despises men that smell
like he did and women who
smell like warm evenings
and tenderness.
I was taught to read and write
and I think about that. I think
about listening as a craft.
Her boyfriend comes and goes.
Her teenage daughter traces
the tattoo on his neck.
She sounds like music;
not just the music you hear
while mending a sweater or
sweeping up dog hair. There
is a line you must cross from
just hearing to listening, like
a familiar song that has a
background bass that you
never noticed because all
you did was hear. When you
listen, ignoring all of the
droning, eye-rolling violins,
you catch something between
the haze, something about
her innocence. She could
have been a singer or maybe
a waitress pretending to listen
to the woes of misfortune
while tapping her foot to the
latest jukebox favorite.

# # #

William A. Greenfield is a writer of poetry, a part time public service worker, a fairly good poker player, and a fairly poor golfer. He resides in Liberty, NY with his wife, son, and a dog; always a dog. Winner of Storyteller Magazine’s People’s Choice Award in 2012, William has had poems published in dozens of literary journals, including The Westchester Review, Carve Magazine, The East Coast Literary Review, and others. His chapbook, “Momma’s Boy Gone Bad”, was recently published by Finishing Line Press.