why rumour mills are bad things

Me headed out,

you returning

spewing excitement about a bird,

a Kingfisher to be exact,

in the park down the hill,

bridge as watchtower.

 

Between us,

zoom lense like rifle scope.

Your words crack and bounce,

overflow like popcorn

at Cinemax,

leave me to wonder,

fellow tenant,

who you are

like a tug

scratching the surface

before bad news,

de ja vu.

 

Weeks later

a couch, pitched like the enemy,

smacks the back pavement.

Indignant,

I investigate.

Join lobby congregation.

Your name gets batted about,

rumours abound:

bi-polar

hospitalization

suicide.

That sinking feeling

lingers all week

until I spot your surname on

returned mail in the lobby.

I Google you,

find you on Facebook.

Is it really you?

There you are: alive.

Posting photos

every few hours,

racing around Spain no less,

having the time of your life,

acting as if the whole hot country is your

plaza de toros.

 

A solid reminder about

why rumour mills

are bad things.

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