Riffing: Airport: Astaire’s Fascinating Rhythm Part I

(A stream of consciousness poem)

I’m sitting but not still

I’m drumming digits quick and repetitious until

You walk through my peripheral vision

A vision of potential, of a shared beat

Will you remain my refrain?

Will you create heat?

My thumb ceases making up tempos,

And in rapid succession fall

Index, middle, ring, pinkie

all come to rest upon the armrest

of my uncomfortable chair

and I am, finally,



You reach my other peripheral

And keep on walking down the terminal

Because you were but a syncopation

And not my crescendo

Not my coda

You create staccato

I am not one to

Get up and move, dance, emulate movies

Or create unnecessary heartache,

Rather let my fingers go back to drumming

Except now I’m humming

A merry tune of nothing

Since a syncopating rhythm

Was Astaire’s way of saying

Breaking a beat

Can be sweet.

Don’t you think?

Boredom can lead to wonderful exercises in creativity. Boredom allows for the most intricate daydreams.

But boredom can be boring, so better to do something.

Like write.

A Moment of Quiet


A quiet face above the counter
Shy but resolutely asking for help
A loud bruise over an eye,
Announcing fear and grief.
In all the news and all the words,
Of men who say that we are making mountains out of molehills,
Or worse, looking for trouble,
It seems there are never enough moments
For quiet faces,
Looking out and asking, faintly, for help.


Never ceases to confound and sadden me, seeing a battered woman in the office.