By Michael Battisto
Silence used to come around more often. I would write while he smoked and read something postmodernist. Sometimes we would drink together. Silence has a very high tolerance for alcohol. Sometimes he would hang out a bit too long. I would call over a girlfriend and have to get him to leave before she got there. But I was always happy when he came. He was also very good for taking walks with.
When Silence stops by now it’s always unexpected. Silence doesn’t look too good, honestly. Someone told me recently he doesn’t even have a permanent address anymore. But I don’t ask. I offer him a seat. We sit and enjoy each other’s company as long as we can.
Michael Battisto is a poet who gets paid to be a chef. His work can be found or forthcoming in About Place Journal, The Shore, TXTOBJX, Frogpond, and Modern Haiku. Born in Chicago, he lived in New York, Wyoming, Arizona and Texas. Now he lives in Oakland, California. Follow him on Twitter @mbattisto3.
MoonPark Review 