Sometimes convos
about active listening
become ambient listening
become convos
about breaking up
become convos criticizing
the pictures of food
at a Jason’s Deli because
one of us thinks
he/he could do better

Now he/he is on about
how music is too
predictable, noting the
equidistant gaps between
holes in most flutes,
how they aren’t like
roots anymore, the
woodwind instruments

And you know that
he/he is just playing
his mouth. That his/his
understanding of music
and everything else
comes down to the hole
in the instrument. The oboe
goose walks drunkenly
home. The cello plays
the moment past death
for several long minutes
Breath itself makes
breathing noises, you move
the ice in your coke

Jimmy Stewart is at the
Deli. All grey in the corner
he lays down his thoughts
in styrofoam to-go boxes
then leaves them on the table
Moonbeams come from out of
your hair, your fingertips, the soft-
serve machine. Am I talking
too much? I will never forget
the names of the streets
on which we’ve pulled over