the dead don't talk but the living sure do

o the diplomats strolling in pairs among the tulips

in peculiar suits, bad ties, and vintage trenchcoats

speaking odd Slovenian dialects

animated

conspiratorial

deep in their plots

among the tulips in the Katherine Hepburn garden

they're not looking for love

they've found it already

or maybe something better

here's a chubby young lady in gold plastic boots

punkish, heavy breasted, obscenely juicy

black black hair, it's dyed

bright cherry lips

her pudgy unshaved legs looking naked, pale and sickly

untanned, but it's still early in April

she punches a number on her cellphone, then --

(loudly) "Sorry!" (pause)

(cheerily) "Wrong number! (pause)

(sotto voce, to herself) "Damn!"

she glances up at me to receive my penetrating imperial gaze and for a moment I want to rush over, embrace her awkward young heavy breasts

give her my own phone number

so she'll talk to me on her cellphone and never have to

dial a wrong number again

then of course her awkward boyfriend shows up

he's short -- bad haircut

an obvious loser

but they walk off arm in arm among the tulips

hand in hand

animated

conspiratorial

they're not looking for love

they've found it already

or something better

the guy on my left chattering to his cellphone

animated

conspiratorial

"I've just learned to keep that dude at arm's length --

yeah! --

all he does is talk about himself --

yeah! --

he's pathetic! --

yeah! --

8 o'clock in the morning and he's like 'I've been a heroin addict for 6 years!' --

yeah! --"

the dead don't talk but the living sure do

into their cellphones

into the satellite waves

into the cosmic Saturnian dust

to their confessors, their co-conspirators

to their handlers, their wannabe lovers

the living talk a lot but they might as well not

another hundred springs and they'll be dead too

for all that jabbering leaving not a trace

among the tulips in the Katherine Hepburn garden