The Mantra

Here he is, on time. Every morning, I  meet him to buy the newspaper. He waits for me;  waves his hand. I’d like to pretend I don’t see him, but just seems pointless. He stares at me.  He has a hello for me, then it’s always the same old story: earthquakes,  threats of nuclear war, decadence, mortality, injuries,  ailments, his religious and patriarchal childhood. Words and rhythm never change. I feel a tightness in my chest. I am elusive. I try to shut him up  him.  I keep hoping he will change interlocutor. He looks at me. Clearly, he doesn’t know discretion.  I tell myself that Socrates also accepted  the cup of poison hemlock and drank every last drop.

morning sunlight
a raven circles dark
among cypress

Antonietta Losito

The Mantra

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