Words
Tossed upon my blank sheet
like I Ching sticks
fall where they will;
echo from the left hemisphere.
(she's a 'righty').
Secret code
cracked with synapse
and articulation,
regulated millisecond by millisecond,
and
translated by Mr Larynx, Ms Palate.
"Who is Broca?", she asks naively
while sitting at my desk,
a parrot on her shoulder
digging through her sylvian fissure
for meaty parallels
and crackers.
"Broca is phylogenetically older than I",
is my reply
"and is friend to apes and psittaciformes."
She asks to be excused.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.