By: Trent Busch
Sometimes I do not want to talk,
she said. Sometimes I know no one
but myself and by myself know
everybody else, which leads to error.
You, you have the salesman in you,
can talk to any strangers, sell them
a truck, a lake, a ticket to
a foreign place not on their map.
And make it stick. I do not call
you charlatan. Not a con man.
Not a bad man, yet who makes us
see it in ourselves what we lack.
Sometimes what I want is to be
a single daisy in a field
and be mistaken yet believe
all flowers have to share is chance.
I see you nod your head. I see
your willingness to agree that
eyes a light shade of blue might be
green. Oh, I see you smile good things.
You want sea shells on a beach, you
want a hundred boxes neatly stacked,
endings fixed, and in the end agree
to disagree without a twist.