I want to know your language.
So the next time scorn rolls from her crackled acorn eyes
to bread-knife tongue,
marred by lipstick devoured by pursed lips,
I will hear her choice words
and chose my words carefully.
For now, my verbal artillery
contains popgun phrasing of
I don’t
know, understand or speak,
complimented by off-putting pleasantries like
thank you beautifully or lovely weather today.
Then again, I don't want to understand,
why stranger smiles rouse only suspicions
and muttering sighs habitually echoed.
It's better to quiet my voices and beam.
My default of ignorance
is to feign bliss.
