Where We Work: Village

In the middle of the afternoon
A quiet melody played on the guitar,
vaguely Mexican,
vaguely Muzak.
And the empty office is timeless,
forever the village,
dust rising from the horses' footsteps,
a small steady tapping by an artisan across the way,
a quiet conversation between two others -
nothing to hide -
nothing to gain,
to run away from - to -

A very warm sun upon the back.
Close your eyes.
Swallow.
Remove the lump in your throat. Do not cry.
You will be rudely pulled out of this in a moment.
Close your eyes.

excerpt from Lyrics & Lies

copyright 1988, 1994, 2004 R. C. Fleet

All Rights Reserved