The other day I went to sign a contract for a consulting job in a bustling office down town. I had never been there before, never spoken with anyone there, never played bridge with any of them or anything else that could be considered mildy bond-forming.
In ten minutes time I heard about:
The death of one woman's sister which had taken place a year before and left her feeling lonely in the world,
The life-threatening surgery that had taken one of the administrative assistants out of the office for an as yet undetermined length of time,
And, for reasons that remain unclear I was offered an alarming amount of information about the first orgasmic experience of one of the employees passing through the cubicle row where I stood innocently awaiting a final copy of my work agreement.
Does this happen to other people, or am I alone in illiciting such ill-earned glimpses into peopl's lives?!?!
It certainly isn't a complaint, just a query. Made me think of a poem I wrote a while back and since I have been slow to post as of late I thought I'd slap it up here and celebrate a rare occasion of two posts in one day--nay hour!
Storykeeper
I used to be promiscuous with my stories,
telling them to anyone who would hear.
I know better now.
You can go back to their apartments for the jewelry
and the drugs,
and for your half of the movie collection.
But, you can never get your secrets back from someone like that.
So they walk around each day,
carrying your frozen footage,
and brag that they know you—which is only one version of the truth.
So now I am a waiter—
a pusher-awayer—
a quiet, persistent delay of gamer.
Now, that I am older and smarter and wiser,
Now, I am a story-keeper.
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