conversation at twilight

nighthawks swooped and dived across the dusky sky

as we walked down sidewalks bathed in lamplight

strains of othello’s jealousies drifted across the street

but we kept our own council and conversation

why are tragedies so ridiculous?

how does art inspire us?

is it hopper’s stark interplay of light and dark

or monet’s muted lilies that awakens your muse?

what are the rules of the game?

so strangers speak on summer evenings when the sun has gone to bed

no poetic whispers or impassioned soliloquies

just ordinary words, rambling uncertainly

forming friendships in the art-filled darkness