COMPROMISING THE AMBIANCE
By David Quirk
What happened was
I noticed my heart was beating.
Not that it ever stopped, but
you understand.
I was watching a guitar man on YouTube break down
Tommy Emmanuels Classical Gas
at the time. Of all times.
A small, good thing it’s beating
without my asking.
My eyes rise to the buildings and sky without.
A homeless man in Fremantle
thumbing through an expired passport
takes me off my mantle.
The chamfered corner of it below a crestfallen belfry.
The old brawn of the right-angled neck atop the spinal column
works hard.
Is there something solemn in this man travelling to far-off places
he remembers tender, or has the mind forgot like blurry birth.
Or has he never been beyond Perth.
Then the big one
in the loud group
at the library, of all places,
states at volume
I wouldn’t see Taylor Swift
if you gave me orange juice all night.
He’s surely right.
Even though he holds the newspaper impossibly close to his face.
Even though his reading looks like he’s trying to hide from some old lover poorly.
His loud friends don’t seem to mind
Or else they gave up ages ago saying
Get some glasses man.