Not Saying Anything

by Scott Silsbe

Sometimes you’re so far away.

But it was you I was thinking of tonight,

driving through the city on fire, past

the people outside their houses, on bridges

and on hillsides, watching, just watching

the fire, but not saying anything.

I was thinking of your voice, really

the only thing I know of you,

and I was trying to understand sound 

and vision and why we act the way we do 

on certain days and not on others.

I guess, in a way, it’s ridiculous to question

these things—it’s better just to give in

and pretend it all makes sense somehow,

like the guy with his shirt off, his large

belly jutting out in front of him, dancing

his dance in front of the sparkling firework

he had lit in the alley in front of my house.

We all believe in something, even if we can’t

articulate just what that something is—

though maybe that’s just what I want to believe.

That’s maybe what I was thinking today,

holding onto the receiver, not saying anything,

with you on the other end saying to me,

“What you got? Tell me something. Tell me a story.”