The Dining Philosophers Problem
We talked how fresh new dancers talk: code words
unlocked the unvoiced sentiments that were
too large to fit between our shorted breaths.
My father never made me learn Chinese
and always left his English back at work
but still our ears had found an easy peace
although his golden wisdom passed like sand
through the pinched middle of an hour glass.
For years this slow art worked out well for us
until I went to college out of state.
My need for token talk had come apart
like ants that spiral and who march too far.
His mind, the battered gate, is worse today.
He will forget the name of common things
like dinnerware or children whom, now old,
he leans against to lead him back to home.
We talk how wintered dancers talk: no words
at all or to each others collarbones.
