Empty Places
Everyone is talking, and the sad
Song of empty places is drowned
Out by the slow herd
Of children filing into the room.
Theirs is a song in syncopation
So full of the joys of never finding
The downbeats, that it hardly seems to be
A song at all, and yet they sing.
Some years from now, a few of them will
Learn to love the empty places,
And will not sing, even when asked
that soon no one will.
Then one day, without any impetus,
They will sit, one by one, and sing again
Finding a common rhythm at last
in the sorrows of lives always in transit.
So down they’ll sit. Their suitcases and bags,
Full of worries and troubles fall to the side,
And the sad song of the empty places
Finally leaves their hearts.