Conversations

The lady on Hazel Street sat on her front stoop, smoking, dropping the long dangling gray ash into a red Folger's coffee can. We chatted about Mardi Gras in Woonsocket, and loving the sound of trains. We tried, anyway, but kept missing each other - it was as if we were speaking different languages, and being poorly dubbed. As I walked away frustrated I thought conversation is an art, perhaps a dying one.

The grave diggers at Precious Blood Cemetery were cleaning up. Spring must be here, I'm seeing condoms all over the place! I said brightly. They looked up and stared at me. I added, used ones. But at least they're using them! They laughed, and then we chatted in the warm sun. It was a lively conversation about winters in New England, and how much we loved them.