Toto's "Africa," a favorite from sophomore year and (oddly enough) of my mother's own rollicking college days.
I listened over a plant,
plastic in the vase over a checkered table.
A tale of desperation, quite and amorous,
hit me gently.
Wafting words and smiles
played on warm air, smelling of soda and gossip.
I stirred a drink absently
and made goodbye speeches to myself
giving me a sturdy pep talk.
Sturdy words "together" and names mentioned with mine,
like incredulously heard issuings of
things you only imagine put forth by your friends.
When you overhear gossip about yourself
and then face smiles in friendliness
from the speakers, unsure of your audience..
It's lovely to be talked about--
for me, it is added fame.
I wondered, remembered names.
Then I wondered what that was all about.
Looking at my companions,
oddly thinking of the sights
which reach their eyes...
Private though I am in thought,
public performance has cast me in roles which
I am sometimes content to let rest
upon image
and others which I seek to modify
to be appropriate to my inner feelings.
An amused observer into the window
on my own life,
I found people waiting for reaction
and reacting themselves to their
communications and consequences of supposed,
untested truths.
I smiled into my drink
and let my hand feel the cool,
faintly tacked tablecloth
under my vinyl-loving hands.
Whispered conversation
is no longer my business,
although frequently
it is my pleasure.