The Conversation
Marc Awodey
You sketched me
at the coffee house,
we absently spoke of drawingand literature.
I took exception to the manner
in which you drew hands,I said-
you make them look like machines.
Citing Ingres, I plotted a continuous line.You agreed.
Critically eying the young
who hovered near decorative book stacks,I muttered a condescending remark
about nose rings, poets, and tattoos.
But you refused to objectify or malign,saying- such is the nature
of this establishment and of youth.
I agreed.We nodded heads
and silently stroked socratic beards
as the artifice of conversationstrolled for awhile longer, into longer
pauses over a couple of dollars worth
of cooling Ethiopian harari.
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