Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - January 27, 2019

You know there’s something you can never tell,
that only silence guarantees your life.
Perhaps, you think, you’re waiting for a wife.

As slander pours, cracking the distorted shell
of this part of town you’d never go by choice,
you turn to face the heckling crowd. Give voice,

eyes averted, to the childless larks
flying by; draw your weed-infested gaze
eastward, where the sky is empty, and close
you’re ears to what the zealots can’t unsay.