Photo by S. Auberle
The curse of a writer (at least this writer) is being absolutely unable to tune out other people's conversations. Some might call this eavesdropping. I call it a found poem:
We met while teaching rats to play basketball.
He stood on the mountain, all rough and shaggy, hair wild in the wind and said: come here, sweetheart. And I did.
So I said to him: look, Sam, we're just gonna have to put us on the shelf for awhile, you know what I mean? But he didn't.
She was born in County Clare and was always cold. They're going to live in Tucson now where he'll keep her warm forever.
Did I tell you he kissed the back of my neck when I wasn't paying attention?
Imagine this, Rose, after bingo he said to me, look the moon is full tonight, let's go dance under the lemon tree.
When he tried to pet a bee, Sara told me she knew she was lost.
So I go: okay, Michael, teach me to ride bareback. And he goes: Annie, it's really easy. You just lean, whisper, tense, relax. Do it all with your body.
They adored each other. And then Jack died, and two years later Eva shyly told me she was seeing someone else. At the age of 94 she said she'd never marry him, he would drive her crazy. And besides, he was only 85, too young.