The end of his line,
the First is old, his hair
a pole-dweller’s cap dusting
the ledges of his face. A drift
of hair falls below one brow,
the left.

Native rhythm haunts the song
of his lines. He pauses;
the space between words
pulls like a rubber band
and sometimes recoils,
the surprise.
He has experience.

The Second, younger, makes
faces. Sound interrupts her,
the microphone, to hearing
what scope is to the vision,
enlarges her respirations.

© 2004, Amy Hart.